


Droplets

by MercuryPilgrim



Series: For the Sky [6]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Faction Swap, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Quinn has the Force, As in Vette has one, Ask Me Anything, Baras betrayal on Quesh, Bullying, But not necessarily on who you think, But we know, Choking, Coitus Interruptus, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Crushes, Dark, Date Night, Face-Fucking, Grey Sith Warrior, Imperial Repression, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Male Sith Warrior/His Hair, Marathon Sex, Non-Chronological, Padawan Hallen, Pierce being a douchelord, Poor Quinn, Poor Quinn has to put up with a lot, Prior knowledge of For The Sky is not required, Prompt Fill, Prosthesis, Quinn is a chronic worrier, Quinn is a silver fox, Quinn only has fun when he's drunk, Scheming, Sexy, Sith Politics, Sith Warrior as the Outlander, Sith being Sith, Sith on social media, Sith temper tantrums, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Sweet, The Sith Warrior is a bad influence, The Warrior is working on being less of a dickhead, The poor Imperial DILF just needs a hug, Theron is thirsty, Therons type is bad for his health, They've missed eachother, Timelines are for the weak, Torture, Ven is a basic bitch, Ven'fir loves it, Weaponised stoicism, big sad, fans being weird, realising you were a massive dickhead and trying to do something about that, she doesn't even know she has one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 51
Words: 140,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPilgrim/pseuds/MercuryPilgrim
Summary: Drabbles and oneshots that are in no particular order, inspired by a list of prompts. All are, in some way, related to the the relationship of the Wrath and Quinn, and range from the angsty to the fluffy to the steamy.Every rainstorm (life) is made up of a thousand droplets (moments).





	1. Everyone Else Was Laughing

**Author's Note:**

> Quinn does what Quinn does best and overachieves. When Pierce mocks him for it Ven'fir comes to the realisation that he should probably do something.

To be fair, it _had_ been kind of funny.

_“Move aside Captain, let the real soldiers do the work. If we need the fun removing from the situation, we'll call you.”_

Pierce’s delivery had been perfect, and Vette's sudden bark of laughter was the icing on the cake.

A year ago, Ven'fir would have been laughing with them.

Now, he was watching how Captain Quinn's mouth was thin, his jaw was tense, and his gloved hands clenched.

Since their the events that had bloomed into revelation and paved the way for their mutual agreement to give whatever was between them a _go_ , he found that he was far more in tune with the man’s body language than he had realised.

Ven'fir had always been talented with Force signatures, but he needn’t have been to sense the proverbial pot boiling over. The Captains aura was wound tight like a spool of razor wire, and the curl of his lip told Ven'fir that he was about to snap something cutting at Pierce.

Malavai was not a particularly emotional man, nor was he known for his outbursts. One or two tactless jokes would not have ruffled his feathers, but the constant stream of snide, mocking comments from people he couldn’t escape from was taking its toll on his impressive patience.

Ven'fir stepped smoothly in. “Pierce, if you’re calling for your ships medic in the middle of a mission, I suspect that the fun is already long gone.” He pointed out with a raised brow, challenging.

Pierce grunted and began checking his gear.

Vette shrugged and turned to leave. The moment was broken, the tension seeping out of the air like atmo from a broken air-lock seal.

He looked over, and his Captain was still tense, his hands clenched so tightly his gloves strained.

 _Are you okay?_ Would likely net him nothing more than a snippy, terse response, as would all the other meaningless platitudes people liked to say.

He wasn’t sure how to approach this, only knowing that he _needed to._

“Thank you.” He went with instead.

Malavai looked confused as he glanced over, his face drawn and pinched.

“My lord?” he questioned, cautious. Ven'fir ignored the stab of guilt and hurt that the caution gave him.

“You didn’t have to prepare such an in-depth briefing for them.” He pointed out. “But you did.”

Malavai sighed. “I regret bothering.” He murmured, sour.

Ven'fir chanced laying a hand on the humans shoulder and was rewarded when his hands relaxed and some of the tension released from his posture.

“I appreciated it.” He said honestly. “They should too. They’ll regret not listening when they’re in a snowstorm and they can’t remember if the caves are dangerous or not.”

Malavai smiled, the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkling as he did so. It was a small thing, reserved and rare, and Ven'fir wanted to guard it jealously.

“I suppose I should be on standby for an emergency holo, then.” The Captain said with a tired smile.

Ven’fir grinned. “Just imagine how smug you’ll get to be when they do call.”

Malavai’s smile widened, eyes soft and amused. “Silver lining, I suppose.”

Warmth blooming in his chest, Ven'fir stepped close and, registering the sharp mistake of breath from his officer, pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.

The skin under his lips was rough and prickly from carefully maintained stubble, but Malavai was warm and _he_ _wasn’t pulling away_.

When Ven'fir finally stepped back, he could feel the aura at the edge of his senses, no longer a ball of wire and blades, but something softer instead, if no less tangled.

A ball of yarn maybe, a few needles hidden in soft strands.

Shelving that thought, he aimed a smile at his Captain.

“Thanks again.” He said simply and took his leave.

As he headed towards the bridge, he felt the aura behind him bubble with something bright and warm, and he wanted to grin like a giddy child.

He wasn’t optimistic enough to believe that the situation wouldn’t happen again. There would be more snide remarks and pedantic comments designed to inspire laughter at another’s expense. A year ago, he would have been laughing too, oblivious to anything but his own amusement.

Now, the thought made him sick with guilt.

Baby steps were still movements in the right direction.

Sometimes, all that was needed was a ‘thank you’.


	2. On the other side of that door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, how about a lazy day, just the two of us in this bed?”  
> “My lord, I’ve never had a ‘lazy day’ in my life.”

Neither of them could sit still for very long.

Malavai because he was an industrious person by nature and he _breathed_ efficiency, and Ven’fir because he always had got too much energy to sit and do nothing.

Still, Ven’fir was much better at being lazy than Malavai was.

“Don’t go.” He murmured into his lovers’ skin as he moved to hold him closer. They had barely been awake for five minutes and Malavai was already reaching for the holopad, aiming to check his newsfeed.

He felt Malavai sigh and shift, and he held tighter in case the human suddenly tried to get up.

“We can’t stay in bed forever.” Malavai chided, voice heavy with sleep and comfort. He made no effort to move however, his fingers trailing down Ven’fir’s side and leaving the Sith shivering at the pleasant sensations.

“Sure we can,” he breathed, so comfortable he was sure he could _live_ like this, all warm and close and sleepy. “I say so.”

He heard a huff of laughter and smiled into the crook of the Captain’s neck, a shiver chasing down his spine as Malavai ran his fingernails over it.

“We have work to do.”

He made a displeased noise, shifting a leg so it was slung over his Malavai’s, further preventing him from moving.

The noise of the ship was as comforting as always. The low throb of the engines, the whirr of the life support systems, the faint beeping of the instruments monitoring everything from air pressure to CO2 levels to radiation.

He could hear someone talking somewhere and he loved knowing that people are up and going about their lives, even if he wasn’t. He hated feeling _alone_ , even if it was just at night. Beyond that door was the outside world, and he didn’t feel ready to go out there just yet.

It couldn’t last, they were on their way to deal with some upstart outer-rim planet that was next on the list for claiming. They had taken Imperial credits but refused to commit, preferring to stay neutral and play both sides for favours. The Empire didn’t take kindly to being played, and so had sent their Wrath to ensure success and to send a message. Ven’fir was only too happy to oblige.

Currently, however, things were quiet.

“It can wait.” He murmured, pressing a clumsy kiss to Malavai’s shoulder. “I want to stay here.”

“You stay then, I’ll bring you some food.” The human offered, exasperated but kind.

He shook his head, tightening his grip. “No, you stay.” He ordered and heard Malavai make an amused noise. “There’s no point me staying in bed if you’re not in it.”

He lifted his head, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes met storm blue, and he saw that they were soft. He smiled, drinking Malavai in.

He was sleep rumpled and soft, a look that Ven’fir would always feel privileged to see. Malavai was fastidious with his appearance, and so particular it bordered on neuroticism. To see him now, his hair a mess and free of product, silver flecks catching the light in the mess of black, his eyes sleepy and dressed only in his sleeping clothes, it was a pleasure.

The stubble clinging to his jaw was getting a little long, and his eyelashes were dark against his pale skin, faint freckles all that remained from their recent trip to Tatooine.

Ven’fir loved him so much it _ached._

“Hey,” he whispered, somehow feeling that they should be quiet, as though the words needed to be kept between them. “Good morning.”

Malavai looked bemused, his hand still trailing languidly over Ven’fir’s side.

“Good morning, my lord.” He murmured, smiling.

Ven’fir used his cybernetic hand to brush over his lovers’ arm, and he watched as his metallic fingers left gooseflesh in their wake.

“We should take a break,” he whispered, feeling more awake. That same energy that made him such an effective hunter was welling up in his chest, urging him to _do_ something, but he had different plans. He grinned at his Captain, who looked bemused. “ _Unwind_ a little, before the big day. Maybe _blow_ off some steam.”

Malavai considered him for a moment, and Ven’fir wondered what he saw. A younger man, Mirialan with the green skin that made him stand out so much in the Empire, scarred and with one less organic arm that he had started with. His eyes had once been grey but had long since changed to amber as he immersed himself in the Dark Side. He had noticed that they had become darker still, sulphur yellow merging with a baleful orange around the edges, like the colour of fresh lava. Ven’fir liked how he looked for the most part, his endless confidence bordering on vanity. He spent more on his hair than some people earned in a month.

“If you want sex, you can just ask.” Malavai said with raised eyebrows, well and truly ruining whatever joke Ven’fir had been trying for.

Ven’fir snorted, mood broken. “Oh sure,” he grinned. “And what would I say? ‘ _Hey baby, you want some fuck?’_ ”

He punctuated his statement with a wiggle of his eyebrows and enjoyed how Malavai’s nose scrunched up in disgust.

“Don’t you dare,” the human muttered.

“Or maybe I don’t even need words,” Ven’fir offered, smirking. “What if I just…?”

He made an obscene gesture, miming his pointer finger going in an out of his pinched pointer and thumb on his other hand, his meaning clear.

Malavai, revolted by his crassness, slithered out from under him and swung a leg over to straddle him, gently pinning him to the bed. Ven’fir, letting him, smiled up at the human.

“You are so vulgar.” The human sighed, the lines around his eyes belying his amusement. “And please, never call me ‘baby’ ever again.”

“No?” Ven’fir pretended to be disappointed, “What if I call you ‘daddy’, instead?” He offered, smirking. “After all, you’re old enough.”

“Absolutely _not_.” Malavai denied, horrified. “And I certainly am _not_ old enough to be your father.” He hissed, scowling. “I would have had to have had you when I was _ten_. You’re awful.”

Ven’fir couldn’t help but laugh at his lovers indignance and learned up and steal a quick kiss.

“I love you,” he wheedled, delighted at the flush on his lovers’ pale skin. “And you love me.”

Malavai sniffed, nose in the air. “To my eternal shame.” He snarked, eyes laughing.

Ven’fir grinned up at him, pleased.

 “So, how about a lazy day, just the two of us in this bed?” He asked, idly running his palms up and down Malavai’s sides under his sleeping shirt.

“My lord, I’ve never had a ‘lazy day’ in my life.” He responded, moving his hips as he shivered from the attention, enjoying himself. His eyelashes fluttered and his breathing deepened, leaning into the touches.

“Well,” Ven’fir began, “There’s a first time for everything. Besides,” he shot his lover a grin. “I wasn’t planning on us being particularly _idle_ in this bed.”

“Oh?” Came the response, smiling and playful. Malavai stretched, arching his back and sighing when Ven’fir’s nails dragged over his skin. “What did you have planned?” he asked, flushed and aroused. Ven’fir ground his hips up and enjoyed how Malavai bit his lip as he did so, feeling the human move in sync as though by instinct.

“This and that,” he murmured, moving his hands down to grab a double handful, delighting in the jump he got in return.

Malavai ducked his head so they were almost nose to nose, soft and flushed.

“You’re such a bad influence on me,” he whispered, smiling.

Ven’fir grinned, keeping him close.

“The worst.” He agreed, and there wasn’t much talking to be done after that.

The door stayed firmly closed, and it looked like it wouldn’t open for a while yet. They had time, and the world would wait for them just this once.


	3. Late Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malavai was getting rather tired of people taking up his Lords time. Especially on date night.

Malavai was, to exactly no-one's surprise, rather _fussy_.

He had liked the ships systems configured in a certain way.

_(“It’s day-month-year Vette, not... whatever that is.”)_

He had once made a meal chart for Toovee to follow and stuck a copy onto the refrigerator in the galley of the Fury. It was optimised to the _calorie._

He created, wrote up and implemented a chore rotation system that was fair to an almost mathematical degree.

He fretted over his uniform if it wasn’t perfectly in place. He adjusted his hair often.

His reports were filled out to such exacting standards that several were now used as teaching aids in the Imperial Military Academy.

He _despised_ lateness.

He _hated_ sitting still, and waiting on a late colleague or companion forced him to do just that.

Ven'fir had remarked on how he found it ‘cute' that his lover could never keep his hands or mind still, until Malavai had started drawing up plans for a modification to their navigation systems while Ven'fir had gone to the bathroom during dinner, and the Sith had come back to a full fledged _schematic_.

Ven'fir, however, had a much less uptight vibe.

Although mostly appreciative of his lovers mothering tendencies, their different approaches for life often caused friction.

For example, when Ven'fir decided to take a call from Lana three minutes before their date, which ended up lasting upwards for forty minutes, leaving the Major to sit, awkward and unwilling to start a task in case the call ended at that moment.

Malavai had been snippy and, though no one would say it to his face, quite bitchy about the whole thing.

Right now, he was grinding his teeth as Ven'fir fielded a holo from some poor Alliance schmuck who had been ordered to pass on a briefing to the Commander.

The young man looked terrified, his wavering blue image wide eyed and skittish. Ven'fir, for once, was attempting to be nice, but only ended up making the poor thing babble awkwardly.

Thirty one minutes, forty three seconds.

Quinn was frowning, displeased. If they didn’t get a move on, they were going to miss their reservation.

“A-and so, Dxun has been selected on these grounds.” The young officer took a breath, clenched his fists, and swiped to another page on his holo-pad.

Quinn narrowed his eyes. He had _better_ not-

“So, f-for my second point-"

Oh _Spirits_ no.

Standing and walking smoothly into frame, Quinn fixed the officer with a look.

The young man squeaked and stared. Ven'fir looked surprised.

“Officer, the Commander is a busy man and does not have time to stand here and listen to you stutter out a blow by blow account of your briefing.” He snapped, prim. “Send the data file over, and we will review it at our earliest convenience. If we have questions, will contact you. Is this holo-frequency the best channel to reach you on?”

Taken aback and struggling not to cry, the officer nodded, mortified.

Quinn nodded sharply. “Thank you. Alliance base, out.”

Without waiting for a response, he cut the channel, ignoring the officer’s squeaking.

Irritated, he turned to his Sith, who was looking perplexed and entertained.

“We are late.” The human said snippily. “Are you ready?”

Ven'fir nodded, bemused.

“Then let’s _go_.” The officer all but demanded, and Ven’fir’s smile widened.

“Of course, dear.” He murmured, amused. Vette, who had been working at a console just out of shot, made a disgusted face. Ven’fir shot her a grin.

“I am not your _dear_.” The Major muttered, sour. He was waiting by the door out of the command centre, impatient and skittish. “You sound like a grandmother.”

Ven’fir snorted. “I’m the most badass grandma in the sector.” He laughed. “ _My_ grandma, the adopted one, used to charge Republic lines with her lightsaber in her _teeth_ so she could throw lightning with both hands.” He said, pleased to remember this detail. “She would call everyone ‘dear’, no matter who they were.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “You do not have to follow her naming conventions,” he said snippily. “You can use my name. That is what it’s there for, after all.”

Ven’fir, finally finished with fixing his hair, paused next to the Major and rested a casual hand on the other man’s hip, moving close to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Come on then, _darling_.” He purred, hoping for a blush. He got a glare instead.

“Do not.” Was the flat reply. “Or I fear you will make Vette vomit.”

Sure enough, the young Twi’lek had wrinkled her nose. “You two are so _weird._ ” She complained. “Stop sass-fucking each other and _go_.”

Now there was the blush, spreading over pale cheeks in a way Ven’fir had always appreciated.

“Vette is right,” the Major said, sounding stuffy and awkward as he tried to hide his flush. “We should go before you’re needed for some crisis or another.”

Ven’fir nodded. “How much time do we have?” he asked, peering out of the door and wrinkling his nose at the cloudy dusk sky.

“Half an hour.” Came the prim reply, and Ven’fir frowned. He checked his timepiece.

“You told me it was at six.” He accused. “I thought we were late already.”

Quinn breezed past him, as much as someone so uptight could possibly _breeze_. “Did I say six?” he asked innocently, “How convenient.”

He held the door open, smugness radiating from every pore. “I have learned to plan ahead, my lord.” He said, demure. “Even for _you_.”


	4. What I've always wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vette has a lot of dreams.

Vette knew from an early age that dreams were banthashit.

They were useless and they got you into trouble and they hurt.

They were _precious._

She had so many dreams, she felt like the she should write a list. Then she realised that was a very Quinn thing to do, so she had scrapped it.

She wanted to own her own ship one day.

She had always dreamed of visiting Ryloth again, and freeing as many slaves as she could.

She wanted to come home to someone who loved her.

She didn’t ever want to be alone.

She needed to know how ‘Warm Hearts, Cold Space' ended, to see if Princess Maro-jin would ever confess her love to Lady Miinachari.

There were a thousand more.

At one point, when things had been at their most dire, she had all but given up on pursuing those dreams.

Locked up in a cage on Korriban, a collar around her neck and at the mercy of _Sith,_ she couldn’t think of a worse position to be in for an alien thief. For everyone but a select few Sith, Korriban was where dreams came to die.

Then a Mirialan acolyte had walked in, all swagger and dangerous smiles, and she couldn’t have known then that he would become her best friend.

She loved him. The affection made her ribs ache, just like one of his hugs.

At one point there had been a crush, and she couldn’t member when it had faded. She supposed it didn’t matter. Besides, who could blame her?

He was strong, funny and surprisingly kind when he wasn’t being all weird and _Sithy_. And that _body._ What girl _wouldn’t?_

Excepting the Jedi, of course. And some of the more racist Imperials. And the gay girls, of course. She digressed.

Vette and Ven'fir, taking on the galaxy.

Then Quinn had joined them and things went sideways.

Things got good, then they got bad, then they got _worse_ , then they started looking up again.

She cast her eyes over to the sofas, where Quinn and Ven'fir were sitting.

Ven'fir was lounging over the Captain like a lazy vorn-tiger, all boneless and dangerous and lovable.

He had returned from planet side, and had been complaining about ‘war droids' and ‘stupid Republic bullshit' while Pierce, who had accompanied him, stomped off towards the bunks. Exhausted, the Sith had freshened up, washing away the blood, sweat and dirt that had him complaining.

Now, dressed way down in a too big shirt and stretchy, comfortable pants, he lay his head on the Captain's lap while the officer finished his work. Looking at him, no one would guess he was one of the most dangerous people in the galaxy.

Pale fingers ran through dark curls, the Sith closing his eyes as he talked, letting the feeling lull him into comfort.

Quinn wouldn’t have been so casual if he hadn’t been so tired himself, unaware they were being watched.

Vette’s heart ached. She wanted that.

She wanted that easy affection, that quiet care, the banter, the trust, the flirting and the cuddles.

She wanted someone to come back to, someone that was _hers._

Long talks with Jaesa in the early hours of the morning had left her feeling raw and wishful.

She glanced back over again, and saw a small smile on Quinn's face as Ven'fir rambled at him, words slowing as he got more and more sleepy. The human kept up his absent petting as he worked one handed, occasionally yawning and moving to cover his mouth as he did so. Those occasions were met with a displeased noise from the Sith, and the petting soon resumed.

Vette couldn’t help but smile, her heart swelling with affection and longing.

She was _so_ happy for them; she couldn’t find the words.

She wanted what they had.

Still, she had time.

Time, and two best friends to commiserate to.

Ven’fir would be the ultimate wing-man, and Jaesa would be her usual kind, lovely self.

(Ven’fir had started giving her very explicit advice that she did _not_ want to think about)

The young human woman was blooming into something far more than what her Jedi masters would have let her be. She was learning how to smile, how to have fun, how to show affection, both physical and otherwise. Ven'fir was a touchy person, and she had finally got used to his playful nudges, his arm around her shoulders or occasional battlefield carrying.

Ven'fir was very much Sith in his teachings, but he respected her Jedi origins enough to nor try and change them.

As long as it _worked_ , he said, then he didn’t care what techniques Jaesa used. As long as she was loyal, she could prance about in Jedi robes and swing a blue lightsaber for all he cared.

Jaesa, thankfully, had more sense than to do that, and found herself tentatively studying from her Master as well as brushing up on her Jedi training. Her brown eyes had flecks of amber, now.

Not that Vette looked into her eyes often, of course.

They talked about clothes and makeup and guys and books and blasters and it was _perfect_.

Her stomach clenched with excitement at the thought of spending more time with the young apprentice, and she grinned. Jaesa would be up for playing a prank on Pierce, as long as she wouldn’t be caught.

Dark thoughts blowing away like clouds on a sunny day, she padded out of the galley and headed for the med-bay and the company of her friend.

Some dreams took a little longer than others, but that was okay.

She had time.


	5. A Sound I Had Never Heard Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was strange, how in the long discussions about it, he had never actually heard it said out loud before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has some of the more obvious spoilers for For The Sky, although it isn't explicitly detailing the events, just the aftermath.
> 
> Just a warning in case you would rather wait another 600 years for me to update FTS.

They had talked for a long time.

Ven'fir had been left feeling raw and untethered when he had received the missive written in a curt hand by his mother, and Malavai had stepped up to snap him back into the present. The Captain had been torn between fury and sympathy, and had settled on the latter.

He remembered crying, and Malavai holding him close. No judgement, no advice, barely any talking at all.

It was refreshing and liberating to just be able to _be_ , without thinking about his image.

Malavai saw through it now anyway.

It shouldn’t have affected him so much, but his whole life, his whole _identity_ , had been wrapped up in _Polaris_ , he didn’t know what to do now he could no longer use that name.

He hadn’t thought too much on that particular aspect until one day he needed to register himself at a new spaceport upon arrival. He had done it a thousand times before.

His fingers had paused, unable to continue.

The field for his name was blank on the screen, the cursor blinking patiently as it waited for input.

_What was his name?_

Quinn hadn’t understood the issue until suddenly he _did_ and gently nudged him out of the way and entered something for him.

He had felt like something had been ripped from his chest.

It had hurt worse than the arm. At least his arm could be replaced with the cybernetic one he was still getting used to, the ache present in the background.

Malavai had brushed a hand against his elbow and softly moved him along towards somewhere quiet where he could keep his freak-out contained.

He felt _pathetic._

It was just a _name._

Except it wasn’t.

It was _everything_.

He had whispered the question to Malavai one night, as he had been attempting to read the latest installment of  _Warm Hearts, Cold Space_ and the Captain was working late. He had read the same line for an hour, his mind on other things.

Malavai had glanced up, eyebrows raised.

“Well, you said you were going to marry me one day, didn’t you? You can take mine.” He replied like it was obvious.

Ven'fir had been dumbfounded.

The look on his face must have been particularly stupid because Malavai sighed and shuffled over to sit beside him, torso twisted to face him.

“You can take mine.” He repeated, eyes soft as he gave Ven'fir something that probably not even _he_ knew the value of.

Ven had felt his eyes prickle and buried his nose in the crook of the Captains neck, and let himself he comforted.

Not too strong for comfort. Not ever.

He couldn’t even get the ‘thank you’ out, and it wouldn’t have been enough anyway.

In all their long talks though, neither of them had actually _said_ it out loud.

They weren’t avoiding it, but there just hadn’t been occasion to do so.

It wasn’t traditional.

It was very much _not_ traditional.

Then again, he supposed he had never been much for tradition anyway.

Sith and Imperial couples weren’t particularly rare, although ones that didn’t end in mariticide were.

Even of those that didn’t end in blood, Imperials took the Sith's name.

Always.

After all, what Sith would give away part of their identity like that? That was a forfeiture of power, and to a _force-blind,_ no less.

It simply wasn’t done.

Except when it was.

Except when there _was_ no name for the Imperial to take.

The woman at the registry office had given them most surprised look, all disbelieving and laced with disapproval. She had quaked when Malavai had snapped venom at her.

But he hadn’t heard it _said._

The ceremony had been wonderful, and the vows had made some of the guests laugh, but there had been no names.

Then they were whisked away to the reception, where people had been coming up to them and congratulating them.

It had been a political affair of course, it always would have been, but they had managed to keep the guest list at a manageable scale.

Everyone wanted to see the Wrath get married, even more so after his mysterious disgrace as an apprentice, and subsequent redemption.

Vette had made liberal use of elbows to fight her way over, grinning so wide Ven'fir thought her face would split in two.

At his side, Malavai relaxed a little. The crowd was beginning to get to him, and Ven'fir made a mental note to drag him away to dance or get a drink.

“Aww, you guys are so sickeningly cute.” She laughed, all dressed up and with joy diffusing her features. Warmth bloomed in his chest as he realised that it was for him.

She peered up at him, eyes bright. “I’ve never been to an Imperial wedding before, no surprise there, but it was surprisingly... nice. I was expecting blood sacrifice and a tick box.”

Malavai snorted. “It’s not _all_ darkness and duty, Vette. Sometimes we do nice things.”

Vette raised an eyebrow. “There _was_ a bit in there about ‘vengeance’ and ‘payment in blood'.” She said flatly.

Malavai shrugged. “Would you not avenge your spouse?”

She shook her head, aware she wasn’t going to win. She turned to Ven'fir and shot him a smile.

“So, how does it feel to be Ven'fir Quinn, married man?” she asked, teasing and happy.

Ven'fir Quinn.

Ven'fir _Quinn_.

He swallowed painfully, grasping the hand of the man beside him and feeling him squeeze back.

“Ven'fir Quinn.” He repeated, testing out the syllables on his tongue.

He shot a look to the man beside him, finding his expression one of soft affection.

“It’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always liked the idea of a protagonist taking their spouses name for some reason, as I think the balance of power is already skewed in their favour enough. No real thought further than 'it would be cute'.


	6. What If...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Venator had never had to work with Lord Idolon before, but it looked like it was going to be an experience.
> 
> Or; What If Quinn had been born with the Force?

Ven'fir had never been a fan of being summoned.

Being summoned from a well needed rest was the worst, and he couldn’t even choke someone to ease his annoyance as the person doing the summoning was _Darth Marr_. You didn’t try and Force choke Darth Marr.

He ignored the trembling Imperial hovering at the flap of his tent, and swung his legs over the side of the cot, just big enough for a man of his height. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all.

“I’m on my way.” He grunted at the messenger, who looked about to faint. “Give me five minutes.”

“Sir, Darth M-Marr said ‘immediately’-"

Temper spiking, he snarled at the young grunt, showing teeth and feeling a lance of satisfaction as he young man flinched backwards and scuttled out of the tent.

Finally left alone, he ran his hands through tangled curls, trying to wake himself up.

He stood and stretched, pulling on his boots and the pieces of his armour that he couldn’t sleep in. He splashed his face with water, brushed his teeth and caught sight of himself in the tiny mirror they had seen fit to outfit his tent with.

He looked tired and half wild, with the way his skin was sallow and sheened with faint perspiration from the muggy climate. His eyes blazed a deep Sith amber, and he swore he was looking paler. The weight of the Force here was tangible.

He flexed his cybernetic arm, feeling the servos doing their work and the synthetic muscle pull taut. It still ached, especially in this weather. Vette had done what she could when he had been trapped under the rubble, but she wasn’t a medic. Infection had set in and the arm had to be amputated as well as a good portion of his shoulder, leaving just enough to socket into. The wounds on his leg hadn’t been seen to in time either, and while he had kept the limb, it was threaded with cybernetics to keep him at top performance.

He didn’t blame Vette. She had her own hurts to deal with on Quesh, after all.

He sighed, clipped his sabers to his belt and pulled back the tent flap, exposing his eyes to the watery morning light.

It was dull and humid, the jungle doing an excellent job of trapping the heat and turning it into something oppressive.

Dromund Kaas was warm and muggy too, and the familiarity just made him miss home.

Expression like a thunder cloud, he headed for the war table, the secluded area having been set up as a outdoor command centre.

Everyone was already present, he noticed, and the thought irritated him.

Had he been the last to be summoned?

Lana inclined her head regally as he passed her, and he returned the favour.

He liked Lana. Her sense of pragmatism appealed to him and she was the very soul of dedication.

Satele stood at the other head of the table, hands behind her back as an aide whispered in her ear. She nodded occasionally, once glancing up and give a curt nod to him. She didn’t like him, and that was fine.

He didn’t much like her, either.

Theron was there, lounging on the hastily erected console. Ven'fir sent him a quick grin, and was rewarded with pink cheeks and an awkward wave. Vette was loitering near Theron, in the middle between the two sides of the table. She looked over and the tension eased from her posture as he got closer.

Marr was an imposing presence as always, a hulking figure adorned with spikes and menace. He liked and respected Marr more than any other in the Empire, and would follow the man into hell and back if he asked.

There was an unknown person next to Marr however, swathed in dark robes.

He was slim and dark haired, but that was all he could see with how he was studying a holo-pad intensely, ignoring everything around him.

“Darth Venator.” Marr greeted, voice carrying as Ven'fir arrived at the table.

“Darth Marr.” He inclined his head. He glanced to the Republic contingent, and noted how a few of the officers shivered when they looked at him. “Grand Master Shan,” he greeted simply. “Do we have any updates?”

Marr nodded, taking over.

“The Revanite camps are well entrenched,” he began, “And we have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Ven’fir nodded.

“To that end, I have acquired a specialist that will offer tactical support where we need it.”

Satele looked unhappy. Ven'fir didn't care.

The stranger stepped forward, looking up at the assembled individuals.

He was porcelain pale, his skin almost snowy white save for that around his eyes, which seemed to darken like bruises around their sockets. Ven'fir would have thought it makeup if he didn’t know better. It only highlighted how his eyes were burning crimson, dark hair pushed back from an aristocratic face and high cheekbones. Stubble clung to his jaw, and he was swathed in dark robes, practical and restrained in style.

A cybernetic implant hugged one temple where his dark hair was showing flecks of silver, the metal curling around his eye and over his cheekbone. There was an innocuous beauty mark sitting on the other side of his face, and Ven'fir couldn’t stop staring at it.

His expression was cool and detached, mouth set in some grim expression that only highlighted the baleful look in his red eyes.

Deep in the Dark Side, that one.

“Lord Idolon.” He introduced himself, his accent strongly Imperial. “I am your tactical advisor. I will be providing support where I can.”

If Ven'fir's presence had made the Republic grunts nervous, the looked terrified and fascinated by Idolon. His corruption was more obvious as he had obviously delved deeper into the Dark Side than Ven'fir had needed to, and it unnerved the Republic.

Still, he was a Darth, the Emperor's Wrath and one of the most powerful Force users in the known galaxy.

He deserved their fear.

“A pleasure, Lord Idolon.” He murmured, and the red gaze fell on him.

“Wrath.” The other Sith inclined his head in respect, although he did not avert his eyes. “I have heard much about you. I look forward to watching you work.”

“Likewise.”

* * *

 

Lord Idolon, as it turned out, was a very competent tactician.

He was standoffish and vicious, always having a sly word or cutting comment ready should he need one, and Ven'fir saw how it wore on the Jedi.

Still, he was _good_.

He made Vette nervous.

“He’s so creepy.” She complained, shivering as she tucked into her stew. They had gotten their food from the field mess and made the decision to get away from all the people.

Ven’fir chuckled. “I don’t know, I think he’s funny.”

She scoffed. “He’s sassy, sure. He gives me a weird feeling though, like he’s going to snap and kill someone if they breathe wrong.”

Ven'fir shrugged, finishing his food and setting the bowl aside. “Maybe he will. He’s Sith, after all.” He stretched and heard his back pop.

“He’s pretty, though.” He commented idly, settling again.

Vette gave him a weird look. “You’re _joking_.”

“Why would I?” he retorted. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“You wouldn’t say no to a _Hutt_.” She muttered, cutting. “He’s all... weird and corrupted and Dark Side-y!”

“So? It’s no different that an alien.” He pointed out. “To some people, me and you are hideous because we are not what they're used to.”

She frowned.

“I suppose so. I guess it’s less about _what_ he looks like than _how_ he got to look like that. That’s some deep Dark Side shit, right there. You don't get to looking like that if you’re saving kittens from trees and hugging the homeless.”

“If I did that, do you think my eyes would change back?” He asked idly, and noted her wince.

“Not _you._ ” She backtracked. “The yellow doesn’t seem so weird now. It’s not as bad as _red._ ”

He shrugged again. “He's interesting, is all.”

Vette sighed.

“Don't sleep with him.” She warned. “Seriously. He's just the kind of trouble you do _not_ need.”

Ven'fir, his mind already drifting to crimson eyes, just nodded.

* * *

 

Adrenaline was a pleasant sensation, but it’s after-effects were far less so.

He was shaking off the tail end of his battle induced high when he returned to the camp, Imperials and Republic alike skirting around the blood splattered Sith striding with purpose towards the war table.

He had only meant to log his activities before heading off to clean up and acquire food, but there was someone already at the otherwise deserted war table. The light had faded and everyone else was in their tents.

Lord Idolon was pouring over what looked like maps and reports, still working.

He looked up as Ven'fir approached, expression indecipherable.

“You’re working late.” Ven’fir greeted, climbing the steps to the table.

Idolon regarded him, eyes the colour of veinous blood.

“I always work late.” He said flatly, and straightened. “You’ve been out playing.”

The thrill was still buzzing in his bones.

He had gone alone, telling Vette that he was only going to be checking in with the Imperial scouts. He hadn’t wanted her to see him _indulge._

His body ached and a blow from a vibro-blade had bit into his side. It stung and he could feel how his undersuit was saturated with blood around the wound. He relished it.

He had needed to _do_ something, to get off his ass and _move_. His instincts, darker now than they had been in his youth, called for violence.

The other Sith stepped around the table and closer. Ven'fir, still feeling the traces of adrenaline in his system, let him, his shoulders tense as he waited for a wrong move.

“You smell like smoke and blood.” Idolon murmured, eyes bright and hungry.

“That excites you, doesn’t it?” Ven'fir murmured, curious.

Idolon’s mouth twitched into a faint smile, crooked and vicious. “We all have our vices.”

Ven'fir chuckled. “I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”

The compliment didn’t seem to get him anywhere, the other Sith all but ignoring it.

“You watch me.” Idolon observed. “I interest you.”

“Can you blame me?” he retorted, flashing a smile.

The feeling of danger hadn’t dissipated.

The other Sith shrugged, slim shoulders barely moving.

Ven'fir stepped forward and his side twinged.

Idolon’s sharp eyes didn’t miss his reaction.

“You are injured.” He stated. “Come. I will tend to you, my lord.”

Ven'fir raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine.“ He assured.

Idolon scowled. “Be that as it may, only a fool refuses healing that is easily given. Are you a fool, my lord?”

Ven’fir laughed.

“You’re brave, to speak that way to me.”

Idolon pinned him with a look, scowl fading. “I calculated the probability of a negative reaction from you, and it was acceptable.” He admitted, gesturing politely for Ven'fir to follow him to the small city of tents.

Ven'fir let himself be led, confident in his ability to obliterate anything vaguely threatening to himself.

Idolon led him to a nondescript tent that was a little larger that the others, and opened the flap for him.

“Sit, please.”

Ven’fir sat on the cot, bemused. From the bag of possessions and the immaculately kept bedroll, he assumed he was in Idolon's tent.

“You aren’t going to call for a medic?” he asked as he began removing the more rigid parts of his armour.

“There is no need.” Idolon waved the question away. “I am a competent healer.”

Ven'fir's eyebrows rose.

“I would have thought you preferred ending lives to saving them.” He commented as he removed his under shirt, wincing as it stuck to his wound.

“One can do both, if the right situation requires.” The other man gave him a smile, small and twisted. Ven’fir had no trouble imagining him as a dedicated interrogator, healing and lightning dished out in equal measure to keep a subject alive and in immeasurable pain. “In your case, I would prefer you alive.”

He approached with his hands full of kolto gel and a bowl of warm water and made an approving noise to find Ven'fir ready for him. He could see a dualsaber hanging from Idolon’s belt and wondered what colour it would be if it ignited.

With surprising gentleness, the Sith washed the wound and applied the gel, before setting cool hands on the warm flesh of his stomach and drawing on the Force.

His power felt cold and jagged, like serrated spikes of ice. There was control there, but underneath it were dark urges, fierce and feral.

Having been on the receiving end of Sith healing techniques before, Ven’fir still wasn’t used to the strange feeling of his flesh knitting together. It made his insides tickle unpleasantly.

It wouldn’t heal the wound completely, but it would made significant progress towards keeping it closed and clean.

Ven’fir was very aware of how close Idolon was, and just how his dark lashes looked against his pale cheeks and he worked. He looked good on his knees.

The other Sith looked up, eyes burning even as the Force ebbed and retreated, its job done.

The hands didn’t move.

He was _lovely_ in a way that was so _wrong_ it hurt. He smiled and it was crooked, beautiful and cruel.

He was controlled and poised, but underneath that his presence roiled with dark impulses.

Ven'fir wanted him. Wanted to plunge head long into this terrible idea, because self-control had never been his strong suit.

He was a selfish man, greedy and eager.

He let his eyes meet crimson, and he held the gaze. The intensity made his skin itch.

Idolon pressed forward, and Ven'fir had to widen his legs to make room. His breath caught and his stomach ignited in warmth.

“My lord.” Idolon whispered, eyes hooded and dark. He was everything Ven'fir didn’t need, but he was everything he _wanted_.

He wanted to revel in power and vice, to submerge himself in dark satisfaction. The fact that he really shouldn’t only made him want it more.

Ven’fir's body felt warm and tense, desire and instinct screaming at him to _possess_ this lovely, tainted thing that was pressed so close.

He reached out a hand and brushed it over the other Siths cheek. Idolon didn’t lean into the touch, but he didn’t shy away.

His paper white skin was cool to the touch.

“You are such a bad idea.” Ven’fir murmured, already committed to it.

Crimson eyes were hungry and held madness in their depths. Idolon grinned, dark and ruined and _perfect._

Ven'fir tasted blood when he pulled him in for a bruising kiss, and it was everything he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really just an excuse to play with the idea of Quinn having the Force and what that would look like.
> 
> Bad, probably. 
> 
> My line of thought is that he had a very harsh upbringing, constantly striving for perfection like my FTS canon. Of course, now he has the Force, there's levels he can stoop to and draw on that he couldn't in FTS. Performance enhancing stims have nothing on the power of the Dark Side after all, and he finds himself falling faster and faster, cracking under the weight of power and temptation, becoming something awful.
> 
> And so, Lord Idolon (which is a latin word for ghost or phasma) came to be, the Dark Side at his heels, and with the ruthlessly pragmatic streak Quinn already had in spades. I like to put companions into classes so usually Quinn is an Operative, but Idolon is very much a Sith Assassin. Quiet, brutal and ruthless, he works in the shadows as an inquisitor and advisor. One could imagine a less hedonistic version of DS Jaesa, dedicated weeding treachery and disloyalty.
> 
> Ven'fir has suffered a bit more than he does in FTS, as he doesn't have a medic any more and also only really has Vette to pull him back from the Dark Side. He's lucky his eyes are still only yellow, is all I'm saying.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one!


	7. The last time I saw him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only you knew.

“Don’t go.”

He felt Malavai laugh as he wrapped his arms around the Captain, refusing to move. He was warm and comfortable and what waited for him outside of the bed was going to be more than likely stressful and difficult.

“My lord,” his lover began, amused. “We cannot stay in this bed forever."

He made a displeased noise, burying his nose in the crook of the humans neck.

“The Empire can go kriff itself.” He muttered, sullen and muffled. “You love it more than me.”

“Actually, I need the bathroom.” Malavai interrupted, laughing as he squirmed out of Ven'fir's hold.

The Sith made an annoyed noise, jealously stealing all the covers and wrapping himself in them as Malavai slipped into the fresher.

He dozed off again in the warmth and softness, only rousing when Malavai gently shook his shoulder.

He was already dressed, and Ven'fir regretted not being awake to watch him get dressed. It was calming to watch the methodical way he put on all the parts of his uniform.

He had styled his hair and was looking as put together as he always did.

Ven'fir rolled onto his back and gazed up at his lover, affection wrapping around each of his ribs and squeezing. Malavai sat on the edge of the bed, and fondly brushed a stray curl of dark hair from the Sith's eyes.

“You’ll need to get up at some point. We’re almost at the rendezvous.” He murmured, eyes soft. “You get ready, and I’ll put together some breakfast.”

Ven'fir nodded, staring with affection.

Pink spread over Malavai's cheeks, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“What?” he asked, a little shy.

“You’re beautiful.” Ven’fir murmured, feeling the need to inform him of this.

Malavai flushed, and leaned down to kiss him, sweet and slow.

“Get up.” He muttered against Ven'fir's mouth, smiling. “I’ll make food.”

* * *

Ven'fir had taken his time getting up, making sure his hair was perfect.

He ambled into the galley to see Malavai at the small stove, preparing something. The Sith padded up to him, slipping his arms around the human's waist.

Malavai leaned into his arms, smiling as he looked back at him. His hands didn’t stop moving, taking a sizzling oro-omlette off the stove.

There was cheese on it, and Ven'fir spotted bacon on the side, still hot and ready to be added on top. It was a nice treat, as their usual fare was something desperately healthy and military grade. Malavai stuck to the meal plan like it was his gospel.

Pleased, he kissed the human's cheek.

“This smells _so_ good.” He grinned. “Is it ready?”

Malavai snorted. “Yes. Would you make the caf, please? The others already ate.”

Happy at the prospect of food, Ven'fir was only too happy to comply.

They ate in companionable silence, broken by the faint tapping of Malavai's fingers on his holopad.

Vette poked her head in.

“You cooked?” she demanded, eyes on the remains of breakfast. She sent an accusing glare at Malavai.

The Captain raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I _did_ ask if you wanted to wait until our Lord was up to eat with us.”

Vette wrinkled her nose. “But he sleeps for _ever_.” She complained, darting over and snagging a spare piece of bacon from the side. “We're almost there.” She said, munching. “I give it another hour at most."

Malavai nodded. “Thank you, Vette.” He said with a small smile. “I’ll clean up here. You,” he said, turning his attention to Ven’fir, “Get ready.”

“Yes sir.” The Sith smirked, trying and failing to pull off a proper salute.

Malavai looked pained. “You would think with the amount of times you are on the receiving end of them, you would know how to salute properly.” He grumbled, stowing his holopad away and standing.

Ven’fir just grinned.

* * *

They dropped out of hyperspace with a shudder, the mood turning more serious. Ven’fir stood behind his Captain, who was at the helm, and watched as the streaks of starlight faded and the hulking profile of an Imperial Terminus-class destroyer came into view. Wild Space surrounded them, and it was an odd feeling to have little in the way of charts or navigation info to guide them.

Ven’fir patted his lover on the shoulder as he made his way over to the airlock, checking his armour and weapons. He sighed, making sure he didn’t have cowlicks or an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. Vette was waiting for him, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

“Stop primping.” She snorted. “You’ll impress all your Sith friends, no problem.”

Ven’fir gave her a look. “You only get one first impression.” He pointed out. “Besides, Darth Nox noticed that one time I had my armguards on the wrong arms. You do not live something like that down.”

The Twi’lek laughed and punched his shoulder affectionately. “You big dork.”

“How sympathetic.” He said flatly, double checking his armguards. “There’s also some Republic big shot on board, and I refuse to look anything but awesome in front of the Republic.”

The lights above the airlock cycled to amber, meaning that Quinn was letting them know that they would be coming into dock and they should hold on to something. Smooth as butter, they slowly approached the docking bay, and the service umbilical extended from the larger ship. Magnetic clamps took hold and there were a few moments wait while the seals tightened, and the computers ran their final checks. The lights turned green, and the ship fell quiet, the engines spinning down and the whirr of the onboard systems becoming more pronounced without their hum.

Ven’fir waited for a minute and sure enough, Malavai came to see him off. The officer stepped close and kissed him, sweet and quick. Vette made a revolted noise in the background, but they both ignored her.

They pulled away, staying close.

“Keep me updated?” the officer asked, concerned.

Ven’fir nodded, smiling.

“Of course. I’ll be back before you know it.” He teased. “Keep the ship warm for me. No parties, I know you want to.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to restrain myself, my lord.” He drawled, stepping back.

Vette rolled her eyes. “Save your flirting. You’ve both been insufferably sappy for the whole journey.” She tossed her lekku over her shoulder. “And I’m not convinced getting hitched will put a stop to it.”

“Come on, I’ll see you off.” She offered. “You’ll keep Darth Marr waiting on his big fancy ship. Wild Space creeps me out, and I want to be out of here.” She grumbled.

 “Of course, Vette.” He said with an indulgent smile.

He turned to Malavai and sent him a grin. “See you in a few hours.”

Malavai gave him a small smile in return, and inclined his head, the ring glinting on one finger.

“I’ll be waiting.” He promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'(


	8. At that moment I should have left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh.

The feeling of air being cut off was not one he was unused to, but one that he always hoped would be the last time to would feel it.

  
He'd had hands around his throat before, but the aim then had not to been to crush his oesophagus or snap his spinal column, but rather to put pressure on his carotid arteries to stop oxygen circulation to his brain, giving the feeling of light-headedness and subsequent head rush during sex. He _liked_ that.

  
The feeling of hands at his neck was one that he had mixed feelings about.

  
It was both exciting and terrifying, and brought forward unpleasant memories of strong, red skinned, feminine hands and the feeling of powerlessness. He hadn’t indulged since her, since she has taken something that should have been about trust and pleasure and twisted it into punishment and hurt.

  
Still, she had preferred to use the Force to choke him, and the feelings were very different. Hands were warm and intimate. The Force was anything but.

  
“My lord, _please_ -"

  
Not for the first time, he didn’t know what to _do_.

  
He was beginning to feel faint and he could feel himself starting to panic.

  
Lord Polaris didn’t seem to realise what he was doing.

  
He didn’t seem to recognise Quinn at all, his eyes burning orange like fresh lava, his skin dark around his eyes and his expression like a wild animal. One hand was outstretched, fingers curled into a claw-like shape, directing the Force that jumped at his call.

  
“My lord, I’m _sorry_ -"

  
He had made the mistake of walking in while his Lord had been meditating. He had knocked, but there had been no response. Stupidly, he had gone in anyway, hoping to leave the reports for his Lord to find later.

  
His vision was starting the fade and his limbs felt heavy and numb.

  
He would die here, because he had startled a Sith.  
The unnatural pressure on his neck was so strong he felt the bones creak, and a wave of terror almost sent him under. You couldn’t struggle against the Force. He tried anyway.

  
Desperate, his hand scrambled for the butterfly knife strapped to his forearm.

  
It was the only weapon he had on him.

  
Foolish, to have gotten so lax.

  
So _comfortable_.

  
Panicking, he struck out blindly and was rewarded with the pressure disappearing from his throat. He fell to the floor, gasping and feeling his eyes water.

  
Unconsciously, he scrambled back until his shoulders hit the wall. He was curled up, fear and panic playing havoc with his body.

  
He smelled blood, sharp and metallic.

  
He would die here anyway.

  
He had struck his commanding officer. Injured a _Sith_.

  
Lord Polaris had had his fill of him, gotten bored and killed his plaything. No one would question it.

  
He chanced a look up.

  
The Sith was wide eyed, and Quinn dimly noted that his irises were closer to amber again.

  
The butterfly knife was sticking out of his arm, little blade half buried in flesh. Blood ran down his skin and dripped from his fingers, leaving crimson spots on the floor.

  
“M-Malavai?”

  
The voice wasn’t the snarl from a few minutes ago, but hoarse and confused.

  
Quinn’s body was still tense.

  
“I... I hurt you.”

  
Lord Polaris stepped forward and Quinn couldn’t hold in his flinch, acting more on instinct than thought.

The Sith stared.

  
“Oh _Force_.” Polaris stumbled back, clutching his arm and looking horrified. “I almost- Oh, _Stars_.”

  
This wasn’t what he had expected.

  
Death didn’t seem so imminent now, and the adrenaline that was making his hands shake and his heart beat fast was beginning to fade.

  
Lord Polaris looked like he was about to cry.

  
Careful, Quinn uncurled himself from his position on the floor, and rose to his feet.

  
He should have left, right then.

  
Disappeared into the bowels of the ship and made himself scarce until the Sith either calmed down or came to finish the job of killing him.

  
He was only a plaything to the younger man anyway. A warm body to order to his bed and take pleasure from whenever he wanted.

  
He would get bored eventually, and Sith tended to break their toys.

  
But he looked so young.

  
So horrified at himself.

  
Quinn swallowed hard, and stepped closer.

  
Another step.

  
Another.

  
He knelt at the young Lords side.

  
“My Lord?” he murmured, nerves fluttering at his belly. His whole body hurt, and it was painful to speak. His voice was hoarse and scratchy.

  
Ven’fir looked at him with huge eyes, wide with horror and something else Quinn couldn’t put a name to.

  
“Mal?” he whispered, “ _I’m so sorry_.”

  
He swallowed hard and tried to suppress a reaction to the stab of pain. He didn’t know what to say.

  
He should have left the Sith on the floor, tears in his eyes. He had almost killed him in a fit of rage, fury and the Dark Side putting such a haze over his mind so that he didn’t even recognise his Captain.

  
The young Sith was deeply shaken, and Quinn wanted to hate him.

  
He wanted to despise him for being such a spoiled, arrogant child. For dragging Quinn to his bed, for using him as a toy.

  
He couldn’t even kill him. It would be so easy to pick up the butterfly knife that now lay on the floor, and bury it deep in flesh. A single strike, throat and vocal chords cut so there was no opportunity for screaming. 

But he couldn't.

He was trapped on this ship with a crew that would take any opportunity to get rid of him permanently. He wouldn’t even make it to the escape pods, unless he silenced them in their beds first.

  
Instead, he only flinched when the Sith buried his nose in the crook his Quinn's neck and clung to him, repeating ‘ _I’m sorry_ ' over and over as he trembled.

  
Something heavy settled in his heart as he sat sprawled on the durasteel floor, a monster crying in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always think of the Dark Side like a powerful drug. It gives you so many advantages, but it comes with serious downsides if you abuse it. It messes with your head. Hell, just look at how different DS Arcann is to his redeemed self!
> 
> Ven, young and arrogant, fell too far too quickly.


	9. Just a brief encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dont fuck with the Empire.

Heren Forturi-jo should have known better.

  
He should have run when he had the chance, should have been more outspoken at the meetings, should have tried harder.

  
Should have, should have, should have.

  
Now the air was choked with ash and the smell of burning fuel. There were people under a pile of rubble in the street, and he refused to look over there.

  
Eriosa was burning around him, and he could do nothing but hide in what had once been the headquarters of the planetary council.

  
He was aide to the Minister of Agriculture, privy to all the backroom goings on of the government.

  
He supposed that there wasn’t much left of that, now.

  
Ordnance suddenly hit close by, the sound of the blast tearing fearful cries from those around him.  
They were all hiding, covered in ash and the rubble of what had once been the symbol of their unified political power.

  
Eriosa had been a neutral world for a long time, and during the Treaty of Coruscant, had enjoyed the protection that its status offered, while simultaneously entertaining ambassadors from both sides.

  
Eriosa had enjoyed being courted by both the Empire and Republic, accepting gifts and good treatment in return for favour. They had been so sure of their position, so sure that they could profit from the Empire and Republic's ceaseless one-upmanship.  
They had thought their crystal mines had been too valuable a resource to risk, but Heren realised far too late that they had been spared war not due to their value, but due to their _insignificance_.

  
Backroom deals were struck.

  
Councillors cherrypicked their favours, shaking hands with the Republic while supplying the Empire, and vice versa.

  
They all thought themselves so very clever.  
The end had arrived in the form of the Imperial ambassador, prim and cold eyed, informing them that the time for games was over. Eriosa would _commit_.

  
The sound of jackboots and Imperial accents barking orders clashed with shouts from the planetary defence force, the rapid crack of rifle fire making his ears ring.

  
He felt sick.

  
They had _laughed_ at the ambassador.

  
Had her escorted out and back to her embassy, informing her that Eriosa would not be threatened by anyone.

  
The shriek of fighters made him stomach lurch, but no shells succeeded them. He hadn’t much thought about why people called the Imperial fighters banshees, but it was all too clear now. He would hear that howl for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

  
No one had expected what would follow.

  
They had planned for reprisal of course, they weren’t stupid, but economic sanctions and extra bodyguards around their ambassadors could never have prepared them for what the Imperials sent.

  
Six warships dropped out of hyperspace at Eriosa’s moon in mid-morning, just after the first session of the day had ended. There was no warning, no demands, no chance for evacuation, no _anything_.

  
Within the hour, Imperial boots were on the ground and Heren could only watch with the rest of the Council and their staff as Eriosa burned.

  
Their tactic was clear. Each major city had a force sent in, sparing no expense. The Eriosan military was good, but they were few and nothing could have prepared them for the show of force the Empire gave as it flexed its military might and showed the galaxy exactly what it thought of people who played games.  
Bombing runs decimated military installations before their fighters could get off the ground. Within three days, half the planet was under Imperial control, soldiers enacting martial law as the rest of the planet began to fall to the invading force.

  
It was fast, brutal and efficient, Heren thought grimly as he cowered behind what had once been the desk of the Minister for Sport and Culture.

  
The Minister had been on holiday and not present at the Council building.

  
Heren didn’t want to think about what might have happened to him.

  
It was dark outside, but it wasn’t night. The immense bulk of the Imperial warship locked in geosynchronous orbit over Jirav, the capital city, blocked out most of what should have been pleasant summer sunshine.

  
The constant rumbling hum of its engines made sure no one slept at night, even if they could ignore the soldiers in the streets and the constant crackle of rifle fire. The Imperial forces drew closer to the Capitol building with every hour, steady and ruthless.

Heren watched their progress on their one remaining monitor, heart heavy. Anyone who fought was executed. Defenses crumpled like paper. Those who ran found themselves trying to outrun a snipers sights. Those who surrendered were _removed_.

  
They had managed to erect some kind of command post in the council rooms, but they could barely think straight, let alone plan a resistance movement.

  
At best, they cowered.

  
At worst, they argued.

  
Heren could hear it now, the last two actual Ministers spitting at each other like they hadn’t noticed the world was burning.

  
He peeked out of a boarded up window, the wind flinging stinging smoke in his eyes.

  
It was quieter outside.

  
The gunfire had stopped.

  
For a moment, it was if he was suspended in time, frozen in a bubble of chaos and calm, a pleasantly warm breeze bringing smoke and chemicals to his nose.

  
“What’s going on?” the Minister for Logistics demanded, her makeup smudged and her eyes blazing. She looked pale and drawn, her clothing rumpled. Her hands curled with anxiety.

  
Heren still wore his work clothes from the morning everything fell apart. He wondered what happened to his house. His mind lingered on Kuya. Was she safe? Had she run away when no one came back to feed her?

  
She wouldn’t understand why her master never came home.

  
Throat tight, he drew his attention back to the monitor.

  
The Imperials were _outside_.

  
Terror gripped his throat and made him shake, heart hammering in his chest.

  
There was no way out of the building they were in, and it would be suicide to run. Imperial snipers were some of the best in the galaxy, he knew that first hand now.

  
“They’re outside.” He rasped, voice hoarse. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. He was surprised there were any left.

  
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen.  
Soldiers seemed to be settling into formation as though they were forming a corridor, waiting for something.

  
Suddenly, they all saluted as one, backs straight and standing to attention as a figure swathed in black armour headed for the main doors, locked down tight. Whoever it was, they were important.

  
“Someone’s coming.” He managed, staring at the screen. The others watched silently, tension making the air taste bitter.

  
The man, for they could see the figure more clearly now, paused before the doors. He was Mirialan, and his armour was matte black and worn from use. A long tasset curled around his ankles as he walked, a head of dark hair half obscuring his face on the security-cam. Two gleaming hilts were clipped to his belt, gunmetal catching the watery light.

  
He looked up, directly into the camera. Someone made a pitiful noise.

  
His eyes were sulphur yellow, bright and deeply unnatural, even for his species.

  
Sith.

  
Heren had never seen a Sith before, not even during negotiations. The masters of the Empire were terrifying concepts, monsters in sapient form, corrupted and twisted by dark powers and cruel indulgences.

  
“Honoured Council,” the man called out, and no one could miss the sarcasm in his tone, even with the crackle from the holo-feed. “I am Darth Venator, Wrath of the Empire.”

  
Heren didn’t know what that meant but it terrified him nonetheless.

  
“Eriosa now belongs to the Empire.” He said bluntly. “You will discuss terms of surrender. Open the doors.”

  
The Minister for Logistics was trembling, and he could see a few crumpled faces wet with tears.

  
“We have to let them in.” Someone murmured. Heren thought it might have been the Minister for Agriculture, his boss. “It’s over.”

  
“We can’t let them win,” the Minster for Logistics hissed. “We should have been doing something, not sitting here arguing.”

  
“They've already won!” one of the interns snapped at her, their face tear stained and pale. “I’m not dying a martyr, not for _you_.”

  
“If we surrender and co-operate, we will live under Imperial rule.” One of the security guards whispered, his name tag obscured. Blood had dried on his skin from a cut on his forehead. “If we resist, they will _burn_ us.”

  
“I will not-"

  
Heren was barely thinking. That was a Sith out there. A Darth, one of the Empires most high ranking Force users, was waiting patiently for them to let him in. Heren didn’t think he would have got his position by being _gentle_.

  
“You have five minutes.” The Sith called, almost cheery. “The building is surrounded, and there is nowhere in this galaxy you can hide from me.”

  
His tone wasn’t menacing, just factual. He was smiling faintly.

  
“You will open the doors willingly, or I tear through them. Either way, we will discuss terms.”

  
Now _that_ sounded like a threat.

  
“Those doors are seven inches of durasteel.” The Minister for Agriculture muttered, his hands shaking. “It will take them hours to get cutters big enough.”

  
The intern shivered. “But they’ll still get through. We cant get out.” He whispered, petrified. “I just want to go _home_.”

  
“We either open those doors, or we let that Sith burn through them, however long that will take.” The Minister for Logistics muttered. Her suit was covered in dust. “Or we could set a trap? Blow them all to kriff and make a run for it?”

  
The security guard snorted. “With what?”

  
“With _anything_.” The Minister snapped, her eyes narrowed. “I refuse to just roll over like an akk-dog and wait for the whip.”

  
Heren glanced at the flickering clock on the bottom of the monitor. “Three minutes.” He muttered, head swimming.

  
“If you don’t, you die.” The intern scowled. “And us with you. I would rather live as an Imperial citizen than die as a free one.”

  
Their bickering continued, and it grew louder in volume. Only Heren and the Minister for Agriculture seemed to be paying attention to the clock, the Minister becoming more and more hysterical as the seconds ticked by.

  
Heren was watching the young man in black, Darth Venator. He couldn’t have been much older than Heren was.

  
He was standing still, arms folded. Another man, an Imperial officer from his uniform, was speaking into his ear, leaning close.

  
Darth Venator nodded to the officer, who straightened and raised one clenched fist, looking at his timepiece.

  
The soldiers brought their weapons up, but did not fire.

  
As though viewing a dream, Heren watched, unable to reconcile the image on the screen with real life.  
The soldier dropped his hand, and Venator nodded sharply.

  
Without another word, he strode forwards and, with little fanfare, stretched out his hands.

  
At first, nothing. Then, a low rumble began, gaining volume until it felt like it was coming from inside his own head, rattling his bones and making his heart flutter.

  
The sound of grinding, shearing metal reached his ears as the doors were literally torn from their hinges.

  
The rest of his fellows jumped and ceased arguing, eyes wide.

  
“How much time?” the Minister for Logistics demanded, a wild look in her eye.

  
“We passed five minutes a few seconds ago.” The security guard breathed, staring at the time as it marched onward.

  
“Oh, _stars_.” The intern whispered, eyes wide.  
Darth Venator was concentrating hard, and Heren couldn’t tell if the wave of nauseous pressure that swept over him was fear or an after effect of whatever power the Sith was using.

  
His hands were outstretched and Heren could see that his fingers were tipped in curved metal claws.  
The doors shrieked, and someone began to sob as the durasteel began to buckle on the screen, the sound echoing up the half ruined corridor to their current location.

  
Slowly but surely, the hinges sheared and several tons of metal gave way under the will of a lone Sith.  
With a snarl and a herculean effort, the Darth pulled and the doors crumpled outward like tissue paper.  
Heren sat, paralysed. That was the Force. The Sith had torn through seven inches of durasteel without touching it.

  
How could they have ever thought that they could stand up to that?

  
What then, would he do to _them_?

  
The Sith straightened, and reached for his belt. Crimson ignited in his hand, the light from the ‘saber casting an eerie red glow on the cracked pavement.  
He led the way in, his soldiers following in perfect formation behind him.

  
The sound of jackboots echoed through the hallways, marble floors carrying the sound.

  
Someone was sobbing behind him.

  
Through the gaps in the barricaded doors, Heren could see a crimson glow that got more intense the closer the sounds got.

  
They paused outside the door, a low hum making his head ache.

  
The was a moment of silence before the doors were wrenched open, metal twisting like it wasn’t two inches thick.

  
Heren, dizzy with fear, just watched.

  
The Sith entered, a single lightsaber drawn and ignited. The other hung at his belt, but Heren knew from the security feeds that it was violet. A crimson glow lit the dim room and drew attention to the man wielding it.

  
Darth Venator didn’t walk so much as he _stalked_ , armoured like a demon and with the presence to match.

  
He really was young, Heren realised, perhaps only a few years older than himself. He was Mirialan, but that barely registered when Heren chanced a look into his eyes, seeing them a baleful amber, blazing unnatural and corrupted.

  
The soldiers fanned out to secure the room behind him, but one stayed by his side. Slim and dark haired, the officer had his blaster drawn, and Heren could see that his expression was cold and watchful.

  
Venator paused, surveying the room. Fearful eyes looked back.

  
“It’s rude to leave your guests on the step, you know.” He said, smiling. Heren swallowed hard, stomach roiling. His voice was frighteningly normal, his Imperial accent lending clip to his pronunciation.

  
No one responded, and the Sith shrugged. The officer at his elbow nodded sharply.

  
“Secure them.” He barked, and suddenly Heren was being herded into the middle of the room by the soldiers, pausing only to be searched before he was forced onto his knees, his hands behind his head. He went willingly.

  
Venator surveyed them, amber eyes dispassionate.  
“It really didn’t have to come to this,” he said eventually, deactivating his lightsaber and clipping it to his belt. Heren had no idea how one could fight with two of those things.

  
The Minister for Logistics scowled. “Not everyone in the galaxy is willing to bow to tyrants.” She spat, and the soldier behind her moved to silence her with the butt of her rifle.

Venator waved a hand and the soldier backed off. He surveyed the Minister with interest, walking closer with a small smile on his face. He bent down to be at her eye level, and she stared into his face with fury, rebellious. He grinned and used the clawed tip of one finger to force her head higher, the curved metal resting under her chin. Heren saw her swallow, and the sharp tip catch on her skin. The metal of his gauntlets didn’t match, he realised. One was not a gauntlet at all, but was rather his hand, cybernetic and state of the art. Heren wondered how he had lost the arm.

  
“Very few are willing at first,” he allowed. “But they always come around.”

  
“You’re a _monster_.” She hissed, eyes narrow.

  
Venator’s smile widened. “Yes, I suppose so.” He allowed, “To you. To those who would do my Empire harm.” He continued; his voice deceptively soft. “To those who stand in my way.”

  
His expression shifted to one that sent chills down Heren’s spine. “And you are all three.”

  
He straightened and looked down on her. “You should have known better than to take the Empire for a fool.” He murmured, “All this?” he gestured around to the devastation around them. “All this could have been avoided if you hadn’t played games. You gambled with the fate of your planet and your people, and you _lost_.”

  
His eyes were unnerving, Heren thought. Sith were monstrosities.

  
“You could have ended this early,” he assured, speaking now to the assembled prisoners. “But you didn’t. You refused to discuss surrender, refused to save your people, all for pride.” He stated, expression cool. “The Empire does not tolerate those who play games, and you didn’t even have the sense to do it _well_.”

  
He moved towards the centre of the room again, and all eyes were on him. He seemed to be comfortable in the spotlight.

  
“Eriosa will submit to Imperial rule.” He stated, utterly certain. “Either you do so now, or it will be so when you are all dead.” He said simply, as if talking about murder was easy. Maybe for a Sith, it was. Heren had heard that they killed each other often.

  
“Eriosa will never roll over to despots.” The Minister for Logistics snapped, eyes hateful. “Our people-“

  
“Will die.” Venator interrupted her coolly. “Unless you submit.”

  
Furious, the Minister glared. “I will never bow to the likes of the Empire.” She snarled, hands dropping from behind her head.

  
Venator’s brow creased into a frown. He stretched out a hand, and the Minister’s eyes widened. Heren wasn’t sure what was happening until she started to cough, and something began dragging her up off the floor and into the air. Her legs kicked uselessly, and she clawed at her own throat, her face turning puce as she gasped for air. Venator, teeth bared in an expression of grim, cruel satisfaction, was concentrating.

  
The Minister was panicking, eyes wide bulging wide as she struggled uselessly.

  
“Please, you’re killing her!” The security guard called, terrified. His face was pale and he trembled like a leaf in the wind.

  
“That’s the idea.” Venator said with a mean twitch of the lips, never taking his eyes off the gasping woman.

  
The Minister for Agriculture had been sobbing silently to himself since the Imperials has entered, but he was staring in horror at the struggling of his fellow Minister. With a cry, he threw himself forward and at the Sith, desperate.

  
He didn’t make it far.

  
The sound of a blaster sounded exactly once, and the Minister was thrown to the floor, head snapping backwards at an unnatural angle, a single, neat hole through the centre of his forehead. The officer by the Sith’s side held the weapon, and his looked at the corpse dispassionately.

  
Venator laughed and released the Minister, letting her slump to the floor and wheeze. Her neck was bruised red and purple, and she trembled as she clutched her throat, sobbing.

  
The officer crossed to the body, peering at it. Venator chuckled. “Nice shot, Captain.”

  
The dark-haired Captain raised an eyebrow. “Of course, my lord.”

  
The Sith grinned. “I shouldn’t ever expect otherwise.”  
Heren couldn’t take his eyes off the pool of blood that was steadily expanding around the former Minister’s head. Heren had worked for him for two years next month.

  
Venator turned his attention back to them and fixed his eyes on the cowering Minister. “You should be thanking him,” he said with an easy smile, nodding to the body cooling on the marble floor. “Now he’s dead, you’re the only one of the government left.” He shrugged. “I don’t need you to annex this planet, but your co-operation would make this easier on your people.”

  
The Minister was staring at the body, and the officer seemed annoyed at her lack of attention. Quickly crossing to her, he gripped her by the hair and yanked her head up to force her to look at the Sith, her eyes wide and terrified. His blaster was pressed into the small of her back, and it looked hard enough to hurt.  
Venator looked amused. “Thank you, Captain.” He murmured, expression softening as he spoke to the other man. His attention sharpened onto the Minister.

  
“So,” he murmured, amber eyes intense. “Make your choice, Minister.”

  
Tears running down her cheeks, the Minister closed her eyes like she was trying to wake up from a bad dream.

  
“I-Yes,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and pained. “E-Eriosa surrenders to the Empire.”

  
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the officer released her, letting her slump to the floor. She was crying.

  
Venator inclined his head to them, smiling. “Perfect, Minister.” He said lightly, moving back. The officer, expression cool and blue eyes watchful, moved back to stand at the Sith’s side.

  
Venator grinned, Heren felt sick. He stretched out his hands as though greeting them at a formal event, his eyes burning.

  
“Welcome to the Empire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game never ceases to surprise me with the number of little fish thinking that they can fuck with the Empire and come out on top. It's the EMPIRE.
> 
> That's like going into a zoo, finding the biggest, meanest, grumpiest tiger that already ate all its handlers, and pulling its tail, expecting not to get clawed in the face.


	10. I knew how it felt to be an outsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People do love to stare.

* * *

They were walking with purpose, heading towards the taxi that will take them away from the oppressive atmosphere of the Sith Citadel. The Kaasian rain was a constant, countless beats of water slurring into a heavy background drone.

  
Kaas City was a city of grey and black, smears of silver and violet muted by rain. Imperials went about their lives, as any other sentients did.

  
Ven’fir had lived on the planet for as long as he could remember, and it was his home. It always would be. It was comforting to step back into the boundary of Kaas City, seeing familiar places and hearing familiar sounds.

  
The forests around the city were beautiful in their own way, and the air constantly smelled like fresh rain and new plasticrete.

  
He breathed deeply, looking out over the expanse of the city. His family home was out there, he knew. The grounds were to the west, obscured by rock and metal. Kaas City didn’t have the immense skyscrapers he had heard Coruscant did, the constant storms keeping buildings low by Galactic standards. He could see his apartment building from here, having shamelessly nabbed the penthouse as soon as it had come to for sale. The big windows looked out over stormy skies, and he loved it.

  
He heard someone laugh as he passed, a man in a grey uniform taking cover from the rain with a grinning Chiss in the garb of a merc, another officer smirking as she leaned against a column. He lowered his eyes, a small smile catching his lips.  
Imperial accents washed over him, and they sounded like home.

  
A quick glance at Quinn told him the officer was feeling the same, his eyelashes beaded with moisture as they breathed in the heavy air. Vette was looking around with wonder, and he smiled again. He could tell what she was thinking by her expression alone. For her, Imperials were monsters out of story books. Seeing their homes, seeing how they laughed and worked and went about their daily business must have been jarring for her. Two teenagers darted in front of them, heading in the direction of the market, cursing as they held jackets over their heads.  
Quinn had a hint of a smile on his lips, dark blue eyes fond as he watched the city, pleased to be back after such a long absence.

  
He nudged the officer gently with an elbow, and he was rewarded with a small smile. Quinn smoothly closed their distance and walked closer to him. The backs of their hands sometimes brushed, their dark gloves doing nothing to dampen the bloom of warmth the action caused.

  
“Want to find somewhere dry to hole up?” he asked, smiling. “I know a good cantina near here.”

  
Quinn seemed to smile. “The Nexus Room?” he guessed, and Ven’fir grinned wider.

  
“Got it in one.” He nodded. “Great drinks.” He assured, already heading for the taxi. “Cute entertainment.”

  
Vette snorted, and Quinn looked supremely unimpressed, a long-suffering look of bemusement on his face.

  
“They’ve got nothing on my two gorgeous companions, of course.” The Sith bulldozed on with a jaunty grin. Just to be annoying, he slung an arm around each of their shoulders, and watched them squirm. Vette grunted something very rude and tried to shove him off, while Quinn just went pink and discreetly slithered out from under him. Before he could go, he pressed a kiss to the officers cheek, delighting in the flush he got in return.

  
Vette made a disgusted noise and Quinn flushed fuchsia, although the officer had a small smile gracing his features.

  
Vette groaned.

  
“Ugh, are you two going to be all mushy and gross?” she asked, flicking a lekku over her shoulder.

  
Ven’fir grinned, steering them towards the cantina.

  
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably.”

  
Quinn sighed. “My lord…” he murmured, putting up token resistance.

  
Ven’fir huffed. “Can’t I enjoy being close to you for a while? I never get to show you off.” He complained.

  
Vette snorted. “He’s not a prize dog.” She snarked.

  
Malavai knew Ven’fir well enough to be dismayed at the look on his face, rushing to interrupt before the Sith said something inappropriate. He was too slow.

  
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ven’fir leered. “I think the Captain can be _quite_ the dog.”

  
Vette wrinkled her nose. “I already know far too much about your sex lives, I do _not_ need to know more.”

  
Aghast, Quinn looked at her with wide eyes. “I- _what_?”

  
Vette huffed. “The ship is small and you guys are not as quiet as you probably think you are. I don’t know what you were doing last night Quinn, but I think he liked it.” She drawled, and cackled when the officer flushed cherry red, blue eyes wide and horrified.

“Hey,” she grinned brightly, “You should write an advice column! ‘How to please your Sith’.”

  
“Vette,” the officer pleaded. “ _Shut up_.”

  
Ven’fir was a horrible person, so he ignored his officers distress and laughed. “I would read a sex advice column written by you.” He grinned, and Quinn scowled.

  
“’What do I do if my Sith is being insufferable?’” he bit out, “Never sleep with him again.”

  
Ven’fir raised an eyebrow. “That’s as much a punishment for you as it is for me.” He pointed out.

His Captain gave him a mean little smile, blue eyes sparkling with humour. Ven’fir loved him.

  
“I can go without for longer than you.” The human said simply. “If only out of spite.”

  
Ven’fir snorted. “Okay, point made. You hold a grudge better than I do.”

  
Vette nodded. “Ven holds a grudge for about ten minutes.”

  
Ven’fir shrugged. “Revenge is a dish served piping hot and full of spice.” He grinned.

  
“Like your golrokan soup?” Quinn asked innocently, knowing full well that the Sith’s attempt to make the dish had ended in Vette gasping for a glass of milk and fanning her mouth.

  
The Twi'lek made a face. “I didn’t know golrokan soup could be so hot.”

  
Ven’fir waved a hand. “Okay, I might have gotten a little confused about the measurements. I found the recipe on the holonet, and it used Republic measurements. Who measures by volume instead of weight?” he asked, annoyed. “Nothing makes sense.”

  
Quinn shrugged. “I suppose it makes perfect sense to them.”

  
Vette raised her eyebrows. “You can’t talk,” she began. “You spell your words weirdly and you call stuff the name for other stuff.”

  
Quinn frowned. “No we don't." He defended.

  
Vette looked at him, challenging.

  
“What’s a biscuit?”

  
The officer frowned. “A thin, sweet, hard, baked confection. There is a-“

  
“No,” Vette interrupted, “A biscuit is thick and dense and its golden on the outside and soft on the inside.”

  
Quinn frowned again. “That’s a scone.”

  
“A what?” Vette looked baffled. “That’s a made up word.”

  
Ven’fir laughed. “Actually, it’s pronounced scone.” He said, emphasising the ‘o' into a longer syllable.

  
Quinn gave him a disgusted look. “My lord, _really_?”

  
Ven’fir laughed as they turned a corner, dodging various people as they went about their business. Kaasian's were used to rain, and everyone travelled with an umbrella.

  
Vette looked very confused, and the Sith took pity on her. “There’s two ways to pronounce it. Some people say it like ‘skon', the way Quinn does. Some people says ‘scown', like I do. It means the same thing.”

  
The Twi'lek stared. “That’s stupid.” She said frankly. “And I don’t even know what it is.”

  
Ven’fir had an idea. “Well, why don’t we stop by a cafe and you can try one?” he offered. They’re traditionally served with thick cream and jam, with tea.”

  
Vette grinned, brushing raindrops from her eyes. “I can’t believe that Imperials actually drink tea.”

  
Quinn looked confused, his brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t we? Does the Republic not?”

  
He seemed so honestly baffled by the thought that Ven’fir couldn’t help but smile and bump the humans arm with his own. “Let’s find a cafe and hit the cantina later, yes? Vette doesn’t believe that Imperials really drink tea and that, frankly, is criminal.”

  
Quinn sighed, waving a gloved hand over to the other side of the square. “There’s one over there I think. There’s a sign.”

  
As they headed that way, Ven’fir grinned.

  
“Scones let you see the true nature of a person.” He said sagely, and Vette gave him a look. He grinned wider.

  
“They do! You can really see what makes up a person when you eat a scone with them.”

  
Malavai, who figured out where this way going, just sighed and dodged a puddle.

  
Vette frowned. “You guys have so many traditions and rituals I can’t even call banthashit because it might actually be true.” She complained. “You have rules on how to fold your napkins for kriff's sake.”

They both ignored how Quinn muttered about propriety and proper manners at the dinner table.

  
Ven'fir waged a finger, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “This one actually works though. You see, their truest nature is revealed. Sometimes not even they know what will be exposed. All you need to do is observe them, and you’ll know.”

  
Vette, despite herself, was drawn in. She listened intently.

  
“You watch their every movement, every motion. That will answer one simple question that will determine their true nature.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Do they add jam first, or cream?”

  
Vette blinked, and then scowled. She punched him on the shoulder as he cackled. “You really had me going there.” She grumbled, annoyed.

  
Ven'fir pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Oh, your face.” He grinned. “Seriously though, jam before cream or you’re a heathen.”

  
Malavai sniffed and raised an eyebrow. “I think, my lord, you mean cream and then jam.”

  
Ven’fir, mildly horrified, shot his Captain a look of betrayal. “Captain, first you pronounce it the wrong way and now this?” He placed a hand over his heart. “And you think you know someone.”

  
Poor Vette looked so confused, Ven’fir patted her on the shoulder. “Just ignore Quinn, he’s from Kohira City.” He smirked at the Captain. “They’re a bit backwards over there.”

  
Quinn raided an eyebrow, amused.

  
“Kaas City natives are rude,” he teased back, “So they say. Rude and busy.”

  
Ven'fir laughed.

  
I’m technically not native,” he pointed out. “If we're getting pedantic, I’m Coruscanti.”

  
Quinn wrinkled his nose in disgust. “My lord, _please_.”

  
Vette rolled her eyes. “Good to see even Imperials do the whole ‘regional rivalry' thing. Stars, you two are like an old married couple with the way you bicker.”

  
Quinn averted his eyes, awkward. Ven'fir snorted.

“Careful what you wish for, Vette.”

  
The Twi'lek rolled her eyes.

  
“I’m just thinking about how much of a nightmare babysitting will be.” She said lightly, smirking.

  
Quinn gave her a look. “I think someone needs a refresher on basic biology.” He snarked, pushing open the door to the small cafe. Inside it was warm and smelled like caf and sugar. The serving droid behind the counter was manning the register, and didn’t pay them any mind.

  
There were a few other patrons, some clearly having lunch and others just escaping the sudden downpour.

  
They stared.

  
Vette was a Twi'lek, Ven'fir was Mirialan and in full Sith regalia, and Quinn was _with them_.

  
All three of them suddenly felt rather out of place, like they had stepped into another world.

  
Ven'fir shook it off with a practised ease Vette envied and, ignoring the eyes on his back, headed for the counter. As he rattled off their order, Quinn found a table tucked away by the window, Vette trailing after him.

  
“What the kriff are they looking at?” she muttered sourly as she slumped in her seat.

  
The officer looked uncomfortable.

  
“Well, you’re... you.” He murmured, holding up a hand when she turned a glare on him. “I think they’re just curious.”

  
“They should go and be curious somewhere else."

She mumbled, awkward.

  
Quinn heard some less than subtle whispering and turned a glacial glare on the culprit. The young woman quaked and quickly looked away.

  
“Ignore them.” He said primly, fussily arranging his teaspoon to be exactly perpendicular with his knife.

  
She gave him a look. “Easier said than done.” She grunted. “You don’t know how it feels.”

  
He tilted his head. “Maybe not.” He allowed. “I... am aware of how it feels not to fit in.” He murmured. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m... well, you have called me ‘weird’ plenty yourself.” He said with a small, tight smile.

  
Vette cringed, and nodded. “Sorry.” She muttered. “I didn’t know about... you know.”

  
He waved a hand. “You couldn’t have. I don’t advertise my... circumstances.” He admitted, awkward. “Now people stare because I’m with you and Lord Polaris, not because they know about the program.”

  
Vette grinned. “Because you’re all smoochy with the green Sith.” She teased, and his cheeks went pink.

  
“Vette.” He muttered, awkward. “I am not _smoochy_.”

  
She gave an unladylike snort. “I guess you two don’t do much smooching in public, but it’s pretty damn obvious.” She assured.

  
“What’s obvious?” Ven'fir asked as he returned, carrying a comically cute tea tray. On it was balanced a teapot, several cups with matching saucers, and a rack of golden treats.

  
“That you and Captain Carbonite here are bangin'.” She answered easily, peering at the tray.

  
Quinn's cheeks turned deeper pink. “Vette-"

  
He was cut off as the Sith laughed, amber eyes bright with amusement.

  
“To be fair, we do a _lot_ of banging.” He winked, leering at the officer, who looked long suffering. “Can you blame me for not being able to keep my hands to myself when I have _this_ in my bed?” he asked, exuberantly gesturing to the Officer, who looked like he wanted to hide.

  
“My lord, _please_.” Quinn attempted to hush him, desperately embarrassed. “You’re both awful.” He grumbled, reaching for the teapot. “What blend did you pick?”

  
“Fyi'am.” The Sith answered easily. “I picked something nice and normal for Vette. They have a good selection here. I’m going to get some Baron Ghul later. The instant bags never taste right."

  
Looking approving, Malavai poured for them.

  
Vette peered at the liquid, noting how the colour was rich and pretty.

  
“It doesn’t smell too bad.” She admitted.  
Ven’fir grinned as he inhaled the steam from his cup, and took one of the baked goods from the tray.

  
A small ramekin of clotted cream was to the side, as well as a matching one of jam.

  
Vette eyed it. “So, cut it in half, spread the stuff?” she asked.

  
Quinn gave a little smile, one eyebrow raised. “Very eloquent.” He teased, and chuckled when Vette made a rude hand sign at him.

  
Ven’fir held up his cup, looking comical as he held the delicate porcelain in clawed, armoured fingers. He would have preferred not to have been in his armour for this, but a prior meeting with Darth Marr had meant he was in full regalia.

  
He raised it in a toast.

  
“To being different.” He grinned, and Vette laughed, her mood evaporating. She mirrored him, and snorted when Malavai made an annoyed face and followed suit, muttering something about it not being proper at the table.

  
“To ignoring the stares and whispers.” Vette added, loud enough that several patrons quickly turned back to their tables, red faced.

  
Malavai smiled. “To proving them all wrong.”

  
Delighted, Ven’fir took a sip and felt something warm in his belly that wasn’t just the tea. All three of them were outsiders in some way, but it wouldn’t do to let that hang over them.

  
The Empire was what you made it, and the three of them would take it by _storm_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a conversation with an American friend of mine, in which we had a good natured argument about the merits of 'cups' and 'grams' when baking (I still dont understand cups). Which obviously led on to the biscuit debate, and led me to explain what a scone is.
> 
> Fun fact: In Cornwall you add the jam first, and in Devon you add the cream. It's a thing.
> 
> Pronunciation is also a thing. Some people say 'skon' and some people say 'skown'.
> 
> Personally, I'm a 'skon' kind of person, otherwise the joke wouldnt work.
> 
> What's the fastest cake in the world?
> 
> Ssssssscone!


	11. Hidden away in the back of a drawer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron, you nosy little shit.

The Fury was silent.

Theron picked his way through the airlock, his heart heavy in his ears.

He had never set foot on the Wrath's ship before, and it seemed better this way.

It would have hurt to be reminded of times past, even if it was just a frenemy's ship.

The styling was all Imperial, aggressive and sharp, all black and red and designed to intimidate.

The emergency lights were dim in their strips, and the air was stale and cold.

The ship hadn’t been too badly damaged during the escape from Wild Space, at least not structurally. The hyperdrive was shot and there was damage to the hull plating and some internal systems, but it wasn’t unsalvageable.

Hopefully.

Torch in one hand, he picked his way over mangled struts and under hanging wires.

The torchlight was strong enough to illuminate the area around him, throwing every surface into sharp relief.

Ducking around a fallen section of ceiling panel, he slipped into the main area of the ship.

Chairs were bolted to the floor and all but one had survived. The holo was smashed, the delicate workings having probably been one of the first things to go. The computer panels were dark and lifeless, and everything felt too still.

Signs of life remained.

Several dusty cups lay scattered on the floor, some long dry stains telling him they had been full of caf when they had fallen. A stack of holo-pads was spilled across the floor, outlines made fuzzy by dust. A faded scarf was caught on a mangled section of table.

He moved through the ship, indulging his curiosity.

It was a place trapped in a snapshot of time, and with no one to put a leash on his nosiness, he decided to indulge his curiosity.

The Wrath was a fascinating figure, almost legendary to some.

Theron liked him enough to take a crack at getting his ship back, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t snoop beforehand. Knowing the Wrath, he would probably have laughed and given Theron a tour.

He poked his head into the crew quarters and felt his stomach lurch.

Personal possessions were scattered around, and this area looked far more homely than he would have expected in an Imperial vessel.

Sheets and covers had been ripped off certain beds while others were almost pristine, covers tucked in tight under the dust. He assumed certain members of the crew had been asleep when everything had gone to shit, and imagining the moments leading up to this scene wasn’t pleasant.

A few pictures were pinned to a notice board on flimsi, magnets holding them on still strong. Someone had written some notes in a precise hand, something about water rations and new shifts for that week. A sheaf of flimsi was scattered over the floor, and he caught sight of some sketches, faded and torn.

The writing was made fuzzy by dust.

He searched the bridge next, finding it in worse shape that most of the ship, which didn’t bode well for his rescue operation.

A dull light still pulsed on the helm, signalling that emergency power was on and running low. The anti-matter core would continue to run for _years (_ and it had been), but the cabling and connectors were clearly broken or shorted and the fuel had leaked.

There was another notice board in here, this one filled with clear, neat handwriting that detailed various tasks and metrics pertaining to the ship. Some had been crossed off, the last one reading ‘Check the CO2 scrubbers' and a date around five and half years ago, which had a neat line through it.

Well, he supposed he didn’t need to worry about CO2 when he finally got this thing flying again.

The co-pilots seat was messy, another spilled mug of caf leaving brown residue over the floor and a holopad resting in the foot well.

The pilots nook was immaculate, save for the piece of rebar that lay away from the chair. A dark stain covered the chair where a pilot would have sat, and Theron suspected that this one was not more spilled caf. The angle indicated shoulder, and he noted how the rebar was stained at one end.

Creepy.

Unable to do anything yet, he poked around for a moment before heading elsewhere, intent on nosing around more.

He would visit the engine room last, considering he would need to check the power.

The Captain's quarters. The door was open only a fraction, and with no power it would need to be a manual job to get it open.

Thankfully it slid fairly easily when he applied some muscle, obligingly staying stuck where he’d pushed it.

The Wrath’s quarters were surprisingly homely, considering he had been expecting _chambers of doom_.

A desk in the corner was bolted to the floor, and the multitude of things scattered over the durasteel around it told him that it had been a bit of a mess.

A wardrobe had a door hanging off and he admitted to poking his head in to look.

He’d never seen a Sith's closet before.

(If the Wrath had _ever_ spent time in the metaphorical closet, Theron would eat his boot)

There was a lot of black, but a small space seemed to have been given over to what looked like Imperial officers uniforms, standing out as grey among the dark colours.

The bed was large and still made, covers pulled neatly up and tucked tight into the sides. The covers were rumpled and dusty and a ceiling panel had fallen to one side. There were two bedside tables, and several things had been thrown to the floor. A holopad that, when he picked it up, showed a dead battery. A cheap one then, not military grade. The bezel looked commercial and sure enough, a logo was stamped on the back. A holo-novel reader, then.

Someone had been reading a book.

Curious (and wary of what he might find in the bedside table of a Sith), he opened one of the drawers of the table on the left.

Inside were a few knick knacks and a neatly bound sheaf of flimsi, which was surprising.

Shameless, he rifled through it.

Notes, written in a boisterous, looping hand.

They ranged from the practical _‘we need more cereal'_ to the mundane _‘movie night? Robo-Jawa-Cop 9?’_ to the sweet _‘Love you. See you at the end of your shift’_ and _‘Dinner at 1900, bring wine’_.

For the first time, he felt intrusive.

Someone had clearly saved these innocuous little notes out of affection, and kept them close.

There were lots of them and as he read through the small pile, he felt like he was getting to know these people through their notes to each other.

The Sith seemed to write most of them (judging from the expressive handwriting Theron didn’t think could belong to anyone else), the only exceptions being ones that had been replied to or doodled on by him, the collector apparently feeling the need to only keep notes the Wrath had had a hand in.

It was intimate and sad, a relic of past time when things were happier, when everything hadn’t completely fallen apart.

Theron had seen the way the Sith and the Imperial officer had looked at each other, how they worked smoothly together and how the officer never seemed to use his own tent on Yavin.

The Wrath was a natural flirt and Theron couldn’t say he hadn’t been tempted to reciprocate.

After all, the Wrath was a good looking guy and, for a Sith, not as evil as he expected.

He could cut himself on that jawline, he was sure.

But he wasn’t stupid enough to get pulled into something what with everything going on, and he realised that there wasn’t going to be anything to be pulled into anyway.

The Wrath was _devoted_ and these notes only compounded that.

Sighing and tasting dust, he rebound the notes, stowed them away and closed the drawer.

Maybe the Commander would appreciate them being left for him when Theron gave him back his ship.

Of course, he had to get it space worthy first.

Working in this graveyard of a ship wasn’t too appealing, but once he had got the lights and power on and cleaned up a bit, it wouldn’t seem so bad.

The Commander was a strong man, quick to smile and quicker to comment, but something about him seemed sad and tired. Theron had noticed that he often looked around as if expecting to see someone or something, and was disappointed when he didn’t.

Theron didn’t blame him.

His mind drifting to the notes and the feeling of invading a _home,_ he got to work.

Maybe he could put a real smile on his Commanders face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In another life, Ven was heartbroken that Malavai never looked at him as anything more than a superior/friend. Theron trips and stumbles into his life like the adorable speederwreck that he is, and Ven is immediately smitten. Theron spends the next few days blushing and awkwardly deflecting, before he decides that 'fuck it, the Sith is cute'. He spends the rest of his life awkwardly introducing his boyfriend/fiance/spouse, and watching faces fall when they realise it's a Sith smiling back at them. 
> 
> (Secretly, Theron finds their reactions hilarious and does it on purpose)
> 
> And that, as you can imagine, is history.


	12. What I should have said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Nox is a slippery one.

To many, Darth Nox was a figure of terror and awe. One of the twelve most powerful Sith in the whole Empire, steeped in power and corruption.

Lightening was his signature, torrents of beautiful, baleful energy eagerly jumping to his call. His power was immense, both politically and personally. Aloof, shrewd and practical, he already had whispers following his heels as a Councillor that could stay the distance.

They were right, of course, but he was _far_ more than that.

Ven'fir remembered having met the unnerving Darth when he was still a Lord, and feeling the heavy drowning feeling of being the sole focus of his attention for so long.

Now they stood as equals, two Sith of terrifying power standing as united as they were ever likely to get.

In public, they were cordial but wary, two vorn-tigers keeping their distance from each other, occasionally snapping sharp teeth when one got too close.

In private, things were more friendly.

As friendly as Nox ever got, anyway.

“I’m sorry, you want to _what_?”

Ven’fir wasn’t sure he had heard what he thought he had heard.

Nox regarded him over the rim of his teacup, held up by gloved fingers.

“I want to borrow your apprentice.” He repeated, deep voice level.

“You’re not stealing Jaesa.” Ven’fir shut down immediately, his own cup held delicately in the claws of his gauntlets.

“ _Borrow_.”

“Whatever. Answer is still no.” He muttered, frowning.

He was protective over his apprentice.

She was still far too Jedi for his liking, even if she had begun to study further into the Force than she had ever done before.

Her brown eyes had flecks of amber in them, now.

Jaesa was tough, but he wasn’t going to let her be around _Nox_ without a good reason.

Nox took a measured sip of tea, and Ven’fir began to feel uncomfortable. Nox had a way about him, like he knew that you were thinking and was merely letting you play into his hands.

Inquisitors always thought they knew everything.

 To be fair, they usually _did_.

“Alright, why?” he snapped, the silence getting too much.

A flicker of a smile spread across Nox' face, half hidden by his teacup. The rim was inlaid with gold and matched the saucer.

The rain was lashing against the windows of Nox’ apartment, sitting at the top of his tower.

Ven’fir didn’t have a tower.

He wanted one.

Nox' tower was structured more like an office building than anything his more dramatic co-workers had, as the man was far too practical to stand for any unnecessary frivolity in his architectural pursuits. Labs, offices, archives and the other complexities made up various levels, the Dark Lords own quarters at the top. Most Darths had expansive estates or sprawling mansions, but Nox seemed content with his penthouse.

The Sphere of Ancient Knowledge was run like a well-oiled machine, and Ven’fir knew he wasn’t the only one who was impressed.

“I would like her to study some relics that have recently come into my possession. They have Force signatures like sentients, but are not.” He said simply. “Her unique talents would be interesting to observe.”

Ven’fir considered it. That didn’t sound _too_ terrible, and it felt like it would be good for Jaesa to get out and experience something that wasn’t the Fury and its crew.

“And what would I get in return?” He asked, taking a sup of his own tea.

Perfectly brewed, as expected.

“What would you like?” Nox asked, tilting his head to one side. His blindfold was off-putting, the simple, dark fabric close fitting over his face.

It wasn’t the response Ven’fir had expected. He had thought Nox would drive him a hard bargain, but the man seemed to be content to let him have some slack in the conversation.

Also, he didn’t know. Nox was a man with fingers in many pies, as the saying went. Far too clever just to do his job, he had taken the mantle and reformed it into something impressive. He had a lot to offer Ven’fir, who was rather spoiled for choice.

He could ask for credits, obviously. He didn’t need those. He had a stupid amount of money, not least because people seemed inclined to reward him for things that he would have done for them anyway. Whatever.

Power? That came in a lot of forms. It would have to be of equal value to Jaesa.

So, priceless then.

Nox was waiting patiently, and had refilled his tea. There was a plate of biscuits on the low table, pastel tinted and artfully arranged. Ven’fir needed to stop eating them before it got weird, but they were so _good._

They had been brought in by the serving droid that stood obediently in one corner. There were no human or alien staff in Nox' personal rooms, and Ven’fir would bet his one remaining arm that it had something to do with the slave brands still marking the Dark Lord's skin.

He couldn’t quite picture Nox as a _slave,_ or anything other than the Dark Lord in front of him. Maybe one day he would ask. Probably after a _lot_ of alcohol.

“I want your help in getting rid of Ravage.” He said suddenly, mouth moving faster than his brain.

The other Darth was quite still for a moment, before he brought the teacup up to his mouth and took a measured sip.

“Dead, or disgraced?” He asked calmly, and Ven’fir was envious of his composure.

“Preferably the latter.” Ven’fir admitted. “He’s strong and not a _total_ idiot, but he’s not cut out for the Council. He’s running his Sphere into the ground for kriff's sake.” He grumbled. “I want him _elsewhere_. Maybe we could sic him on the Republic and watch then tear each other to pieces.”

Nox considered for a moment.

“You realise that what you have asked for is somewhat disproportionate to my request?” He murmured, and Ven’fir had to admit that he was probably right. He shrugged.

“Okay, you can have Jaesa for a month.”

Nox took another sip. “Four.”

“One and a half.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Two, and you train Ashara for a month.”

Ven’fir grinned widely. “You would give me your pretty little apprentice?” he asked, teasing.

Nox raised a brow. “You’re giving me yours.” He pointed out.

“You would send your girlfriend away for a month? How cold.” Ven’fir smirked, but he realised that he had said the wrong thing when Nox' face darkened.

“You assume a lot, Wrath.” He murmured, tone carefully neutral and all the more disconcerting for it. “She and I are not involved, nor will we ever be. I have no interest in her, nor she in me.”

Ven’fir held up a hand. “Apologies.” He said, honest. “I didn’t mean to offend or assume. It’s none of my business.”

“It is not.” The other Sith agreed, posture still ramrod straight. “I am her teacher. It would be... strange.” He admitted. “Even if I was so inclined.”

Ven’fir shrugged. Such relationships were not uncommon among Sith Masters and their apprentices, but Nox was anything but common.

“You want me to train her? I can do that.” He agreed, thinking how useful it would be to have someone new to spar against and how pleased this would make Jaesa.

Nox gave a small smile, paper white skin almost glowing in the lighting. His choice of decor probably wasn’t his at all considering he couldn't  _see_ it, but it was less oppressive than most Sith went for. Shades of black, grey and cream dominated the room, slick and neat. Some splashes of heather made the room vaguely more colourful. It suited the Darth, and Ven’fir was mentally cataloguing styling choices to borrow for his own apartment.

“Good.” The other Sith acquiesced with a nod. “We shall hash out the finer details at a later date. I believe your lover is waiting for you downstairs.”

Ven’fir nodded, not entirely sure how Nox knew that, but willing to bet he wouldn’t get a straight answer if he asked. He raised his teacup in toast.

Nox didn’t mirror him and he felt stupid.

Right, toast the blind guy. Smooth.

Draining the last of his tea, he carefully replaced the cup on the saucer and stood, brushing a few pastel tinted biscuit crumbs from his lap.

“It's been a pleasure, Darth Nox.” He said with a pleased smile.

Ravage wouldn’t know what hit him.

Nox stood and inclined his head to him. “Darth Venator.” He spoke, deep voice showing strength his thin form didn’t convey. “I have an inside man on Ravage. I will send reports on his behaviour, so that we may plan at a later date.”

Ven’fir frowned as they walked to the elevator and pressed the call button.

“Hang on, how do you have a spy on him already?” He asked, something suspicious tickling his gut.

The elevator opened and Nox tilted his head, expression unchanging. It was unnerving.

“You didn’t think you were the only one that wanted him gone, did you?” Nox gave small nod, only half mocking. “Expect my holo, Darth Venator.”

The doors closed in Ven’fir's face, and he realised too late that he’d been played.

Nox had already been planning on gunning for Ravage.

“ _Kriff_.”

Nox had conned him into not only giving up Jaesa for two months, but also training Nox' own apprentice for a month. All for something he had been planning on doing anyway.

What he should have said was ‘no'. Perhaps a classic ‘go kriff yourself’.

But he hadn’t even thought about it. He just let himself be played.

He really should have brought Vette or Malavai along.

Damn inquisitors. Too clever for their own good.

Or Ven’fir's good, anyway.

“ _Double kriff.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE the Inquisitor storyline. It's such a satisfying rags-to-unfathomable-power-and-presumably-riches story.
> 
> My Nox is not a gibbering Dark Side monster, but rather a practical, scheming, bad tempered, honour-is-for-idiots politician that just so happens to be able to fry a gundark with his pinky finger.
> 
> Nox likes the Wrath a lot more than the Wrath likes Nox.
> 
> Nox is also asexual and aromantic, having never felt the need to jump into bed with anyone ever or engage in romance with anyone. He shares a special bond with Ashara however, who understands and appreciates that he will never be interested in her sexually. She's still discovering herself after leaving the Jedi, and she's finding out that she might not be interested in anyone unless she has built up a strong relationship beforehand, making her demi-pansexual. Just my little headcanon from when I was playing, and couldn't imagine my Nox with anyone, and felt poor Ashara had a harder time than Jaesa being away from the Jedi.
> 
> Nox and Ashara, taking on the galaxy without ever needing to bang anyone. 
> 
> Cipher Nine would be horrified.


	13. Waking up in a strange room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first morning back.

Malavai had never been a fan of clichés, but waking up had felt rather like a dream.

  
For six years, rousing from sleep had not been a pleasant experience.

  
First the grief and the guilt and general unease of the front lines, then the irregular cycle and looming dread of interrogation at Republic hands. Then, a single night of hope aboard an Imperial transport after what he had so foolishly thought was a rescue, only to turn to horror when he realised that their destination was not Dromund Kaas, but an Imperial penal colony on the outer rim.

  
Then release, pain from surgery and mourning keeping his sleeping moments as stressful as his waking ones. Then it was work again, vengeance and duty keeping him going in the face of loneliness and hurt.

  
Everything had culminated in that moment he stepped onto the dock on Odessen, crisp air filling his lungs as he took in the Alliance base.

  
It wasn’t the most impressive structure in the galaxy, nor the most beautiful.

  
To Malavai however, there was no sight better.

  
He had been about to combust with nerves as he forced himself to walk behind the Republic spy with the red jacket and head inside. Theron Shan talked a lot, and gave away little. Malavai didn’t mind him. The Republic accent gave him pause and reason to be wary, but the spy was Alliance now, and Malavai remembered him from Rishi and Yavin. He had been jealous then. Shan was young and attractive, his easy-going nature and good humour something Malavai never felt he could measure up to.

  
He was sure he looked like a child on a school field trip for the first time, marvelling and looking around in the hopes of seeing something.

  
Of course, his something was more like a someone.  
Shan had wanted him kept away until the right time, but Malavai wasn’t about to let a former Republic spy tell him that he had to sit on his kriffing hands for a few days while the man he had missed for six whole years was quite literally outside.

  
So, he’d gone and made quite the entrance in the hangar and he could still feel Ven's arms around him if he remembered hard enough.

  
He roused slowly, relishing the opportunity to do so. He was warm and comfortable, which was something he hadn’t been for a long time.

  
He was in an actual bed, which was even more unusual.

  
Hospital gurneys didn’t count.

  
He let each of his senses awaken in turn, each adding a layer to his perception.

  
Touch was first, the sensation of laying on something soft and firm, sheets around him and a pillow under his head. He was warm.

  
Next came his nose, filtering the clean scent of laundry through to his brain. It was mixed with a faint cologne that he felt his heart lurch at, and he let himself revel in the prickle through his limbs as his body registered panic even as his brain sent the all clear.

  
He could hear the muffled sounds of people. Not soldiers or shelling or guards with Republic accents, but people going about their business outside, oblivious to his thoughts. A faint hum sounded from an air conditioning unit, and the sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears, not quite drowning out the sound of deep breathing from beside him.  
His eyes were closed, shades of deep blush melding into orange and yellow behind his eyelids.

  
He cracked open an eye and was met with gloom, the lights turned way down. The room was wholly unfamiliar, even if it hadn’t been dark.

  
For some reason, he postponed looking beside him, and instead took in the room. He supposed it was to tease himself or to keep his excitement high.

  
It was surprisingly bare, but everywhere he could see things that made his heart sing because they were so familiar.

  
An abandoned mug of caf on the desk that had ‘Galaxy's Best Darth' written on it next to a stack of holo-pads that were half falling over. A pair of dark boots had been left haphazardly beside the door. A lone jumper was slung over the back of the desk chair, the knit heavy and warm looking. Odessen was chilly. It looked hand made.

  
A counter that had a steadily growing colony of bottles on it, and three different types of hairbrushes.  
(Malavai didn’t know the difference and never had)  
Another holo-pad, this one cheap and commercial. Malavai would bet his leg that if he brought it out of sleep-mode it would be left on a chapter of one of the _Warm Hearts, Cold Space_ books.

  
His own clothes were laid on a chair, rumpled and a little lopsided. He resisted the urge to straighten them.

  
There was a small noise from beside him, and Malavai couldn’t help but look down.

  
He couldn’t describe the feeling inside of him, but it was something like elation, relief, joy and bone crushing affection all at once. It took his breath away.

  
Ven’fir was sleeping next to him, dead to the world. He was usually a light sleeper, but right now Malavai was sure it would take a shuttle landing on his pillow to wake him.

  
He was much the same to the last time Malavai had seen him, when he had kissed the human on the cheek, grinned at him and said he would be back in a few hours.

  
He hadn’t changed stature much, although the cybernetics looked upgraded. His precious hair had a few grey strands that had snuck into dark curls, catching the light. Malavai couldn’t help but smile at that, remembering teasing directed at him for beginning to go grey.

  
There were more scars, including one on his belly that made Malavai want to kiss him, hug him, and find whoever had done it so he could make them _suffer_.

  
There were lines on his face. Crows feet and frown lines in equal measure, which was concerning but not unexpected.

  
Morning stubble clung to his jaw, and his dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he slept, face pressed into the pillow. His mouth was open slightly, and Malavai wanted to kiss him so badly, it almost hurt.

  
Really, Malavai wanted to touch him all over. He wanted to run his hands over the swell of his arms, down the plane of his stomach and over the curve of his spine and the sharp bones of his hips. He wanted to kiss down his throat and examine his hands, feeling the rough calluses and worn palms.

  
He wanted to run his fingers down each leg, and there was a whole other _list_ of things he wanted to do to the inviting curve of his behind.

  
He wanted to explore again, like they were new. Some of it might be. He wanted to get back to that familiarity, to have the privilege of touching.

  
To do so while Ven was asleep would have been fine six years ago, but Malavai was aware that consent had an expiration date.

  
Just in case it wasn’t okay anymore, he relegated himself to brushing a stray curl from the Sith’s face and pressing a lingering kiss to his shoulder.

  
They hadn’t even thought about sex the previous night, everything being still too raw and new.

  
Malavai had, of course, been almost consumed with thoughts. What if Ven’fir had found someone else?  
After all, he had been thawed for almost a year before Malavai made his way back.

  
Plenty of time to find someone new.

  
Someone younger, prettier, easier to deal with.  
Someone better.

  
Ven’fir had just shaken his head and shrugged.  
“Didn’t have time,” he said, honest. “And even if I did, I would have only thought about you. So no, I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

  
He had looked shifty and genuinely worried for a moment, which had made Malavai's stomach drop.  
“I flirted with Theron, but that’s because it’s funny.”

He admitted. “I kissed his cheek when I was drunk. That’s all.”

  
The Sith had shot him a look that Malavai was surprised to see was a little shy.

  
“What about you?” Ven had asked, awkward. “You were actually conscious for most of it.”

  
Malavai had looked him in the eye.

  
“They weren’t you.” He murmured, truthful.

  
The Sith had nodded like his body hadn’t just released attention like a breaking dam. “I... okay.”

Was all he managed before he pulled Malavai into a hug, holding him close.

  
“ _I missed you_.” Malavai heard whispered into his throat, and he whispered it back.

  
They had barely separated enough to remove most their clothes before they fell into the big bed and were holding each other again.

  
It was just relief and joy, pure and simple.  
Malavai couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about sex, but he hadn’t felt in the mood.

  
A six year dry spell wasn’t doing anything for his libido, but a little while longer wouldn’t hurt.

  
Besides, Shan had mentioned how this conference call wasn’t happening for another two days, so they could spend all day in bed if they wanted to.

  
And Malavai _did_ want to.

  
He hoped Ven still found him attractive enough.  
He had put on a little weight since before the fall, his attempts to get back into shape after his stint with the Republic having turned into a small obsession. Muscle had taken the place of nothing, bring him closer to Ven's stature than he had been.

  
Cybernetics threaded his skin now, some visible from inside the thin white lines of scars, some more obvious. The shrapnel from the grenade had really done a number on the left side of his body, including his face.

  
Ven hadn’t flinched when he’d looked at him, at least.  
It was embarrassing and he hated looking in the mirror, seeing this battered old soldier looking back.

  
He yawned and stretched, an urge to get up and do something at war with the desire to never leave this bed again.

  
It was very early, and by the alarm clock he had sneaked a look at, Ven wouldn’t be awake for a while yet.

  
He wanted to be close, but being close and being unable to touch was maddening.

  
Content in the knowledge that Ven wasn’t going anywhere, he carefully rolled out of bed and found the fresher, emerging ten minutes later in a small cloud of steam and a towel.

  
He checked the mirror.

  
Aside from the fact that it was him looking back, it... wasn’t bad.

  
He looked more well rested, at least.

  
Pleased, he pressed a last kiss to the sleeping Sith's cheek, lingering and fond.

  
Ven’fir shifted and ascended from the depths of sleep, opening his eyes slowly and blinking at what little light there was.

  
“Mal?” he murmured softly, voice gravely from sleep.  
Malavai softened, and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down fondly. This was what had kept him going on long nights in the trenches, the cells or his bunk.

  
“Hey,” he greeted, keeping his voice low. “How are you feeling?”

  
Ven’fir's expression was blinding as he smiled.

  
“Perfect,” he sighed happily, and sought Malavai's hand with his.

  
They sat together for a few minutes, fingers entwined and just enjoying the others presence.

  
Ven’fir looked up at him with a sly little grin. “You’re _naked_.” He observed, and Malavai raised an eyebrow, smiling.

  
“I have a towel on.” He reminded. Ven’fir waved a hand.

  
“Doesn’t count.” he assured. His eyes drank Malavai in, and the human began to feel self conscious. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling his cheeks heat up.

  
“What?” he asked, defensive. He glanced away.  
Ven’fir frowned and tugged lightly on his hand to return his attention to him. Expression clearing, he gazed up in adoration.

  
“Just wanted to look at you,” he admitted, smiling. “I love you.”

  
It had been six years since he had heard those words, and it caused his stomach to flip. There had been times when he had thought he would never hear them again.

  
“I love you too,” he managed, a lump in his throat. “I missed you.”

  
The lines around Ven’fir’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Malavai finally couldn’t help himself.

  
He leaned down and kissed the Sith, long and slow and with every emotion he could pour into the action. The other means lips were firm against his, stubble making his jaw prickly. He was warm and that had always been something Malavai had loved about being physically close to him. He was pleasantly solid under his hands, and he was so real it hurt. Malavai kissed him with reckless abandon, desperate and hazy.

  
Ven’fir leaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around the human and keeping him close, holding him like he might slip away again.

  
When they finally parted, they stayed close, noses touching and hands on each other.

  
“Fuck,” Ven’fir cursed breathlessly, closing his eyes. “I almost forgot how gorgeous you are.”

  
Malavai felt himself go red, heat blooming in his cheeks.

  
“I think the carbonite affected your eyesight,” he whispered.

  
Ven grinned, looking up at him with a relaxed, contented look in his amber eyes. “Nope, you’re just sexy.” He said with a laugh, “I like the scars. They make you look like a badass.” He teased, and Malavai felt something fall away from his tensed shoulders as a laugh escaped him, low and husky.  
Ven’fir's hands ran over his sides with guileless care, and Malavai melted into the first physical affection he’d had in six years.

  
It was almost too much. He felt on the edge of a whirlpool, about to let go and let himself be swept away.

  
It was just what he wanted. To be swept away, if only for a few hours.

  
He didn’t want to push for sex just yet, but nobody said they couldn’t cuddle. He moved away for a moment, ignoring Ven’fir’s disappointed noise. He slipped on some underwear (which got him another disappointed noise), and climbed back into bed.  
Wasting no time, he curled close and rested his head on the Sith's chest, over his heart. One arm curled over the Mirialan, as though he would fly away of not tethered.

  
Ven’fir curled an arm around his shoulders and pulled the blankets over them both.

  
They talked.

  
Sometimes it was heavy, Malavai recounting what he could about his time on the front lines, with the Republic, the Imperial prison and then later on in his crusade against Zakuul.

  
Ven’fir told his own story, tone uncharacteristically sombre.

  
Other times it was light, but that was one sided. Malavai couldn’t think of any happy stories to tell him.

  
He was toned down some, Malavai thought as Ven recalled Asylum. Still Ven’fir, but calmer. More serious. Weight on his shoulders and lines on his face.

  
Still with a _terrible_ sense of humour.

  
He smiled, curling into the embrace.

  
He had missed this more than anything.

  
It was real.

It was _real_.

  
He pressed a kiss to Ven’fir’s shoulder and was rewarded with a squeeze as the other man talked about roasted gorak.

  
He might have woken up in an strange room, but Malavai was _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.  
> Am.  
> ALIVE.
> 
> Apologies for missing last week's installments, but I was moving house! Should be back on track now.
> 
> I really liked writing this chapter!


	14. There were signs of trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malavai can be trouble sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not an accurate or realistic description of sex. This is for entertainment purposes, and is in no way a guide for any of the activities featured.
> 
> This is for fun, and is not in any way meant to be realistic. The characters featured are adults who are fully consenting and have previously negotiated their relationship in regards to their kinky bangin'.
> 
> Please practice safe sex, and do your research before engaging in any potentially dangerous activities.

Ven'fir was very good at sensing danger.

  
Some people would not believe it (He was looking at _you_ , Lana), as his knack for getting into trouble was legendary.

  
What most people forgot however, was that running (or rather, flinging himself with the Force) towards danger was sort of his _job_.

  
So, even without his acute Force senses, he was quite proud of his ability to know exactly where trouble was going down, and insert himself right into the middle of it.

  
When he stepped into the command centre, his ‘trouble' senses started going haywire.

  
It was almost empty, for one. There was always several someones tapping away at a computer or talking on the holo, or pouring over the 3D map of the galaxy that served as their centrepiece.

  
There was only Theron, tapping away in one corner that he had claimed as his own little espionage nest.

  
“Theron?” he ventured, and took stock of how his spymaster actually jumped and shot him a look.

  
“Commander.” He greeted tetchily, bags under his eyes and stress in the lines of his body.

  
Ven’fir liked looking at those lines.

  
“Where is everyone?” he asked, peering around the command centre. It was late afternoon and it was nowhere near time to be done with the day. He had just come from a session with the new Force sensitives in the Enclave, having made it his personal mission to at least meet each of them.

  
They were so cute, little Sith and little Jedi all eager and ready to learn and only slightly ready to tear each other apart.

  
To be fair, that was mostly the Sith, he thought fondly. He remembered his time at the academy. So much fun, so little time to clean up blood.

  
“Ask Major Quinn.” Theron muttered. “That man is savage.”

  
Ven’fir was beginning to feel like he had missed something.

  
Theron seemed to think so too, as he raised an eyebrow and continued.

  
“You didn’t hear? Koth did what Koth does and started waxing poetic about how great Zakuul is,” Theron rolled his eyes, mouth a downward turn. “And then things went on from there. Kaliyo stirred the pot like she does and Koth wasn’t happy about just what the Major got up to while you were in carbonite.”

  
Theron looked glum and tired, and Ven’fir winced.  
Malavai, after the ambush and prison and his subsequent recovery, had not been a fan of Zakuul.

Malavai was a vindictive bastard, and dogged.  
His vengeance had been bloody and as brutally efficient as one could expect from him and Ven’fir couldn’t help but be a little proud of him.

  
Dear, bloodthirsty Malavai.

  
Now Koth and his idolisation of Zakuul, a place that had taken everything that was dear to Malavai, was clearly not going down well.

  
Ven’fir understood where Koth was coming from, he still loved his Empire despite its faults. It was his home, and he would _always_ call himself Sith.

  
However, Koth could be kind of a dick about it.

  
Sighing, he nodded to Theron. “I’ll deal with it.” He said simply, “Where did they go?”

  
Theron shrugged. “Koth stormed off to tend his ego after your boyfriend was done with him.” He said with a little smirk. “And the Major headed towards your rooms.”

  
Ven’fir grinned. “Perfect. I’ll let Koth calm down, but if I let Malavai stew he’ll just ball it all up and be bitchy for ages.”

  
Theron cracked a grin. “What a catch.” He teased.

  
Ven’fir raised an eyebrow, smiling. “If you had any idea how talented that man is with his mouth...”

  
Theron gave him a flat look, pink decorating his cheeks. Ven’fir would bet a thousand credits that Theron wouldn’t be able to look at Major Quinn the same way again.

  
Ven’fir gave him a sly look. “Don’t come looking for us for a few hours. I think we need to... work out some of that frustration.”

  
The spy made a face, scrunching up his nose. “Aaaand that’s my cue to... not think about that.” He muttered, red faced.

  
Ven’fir laughed, turning to leave. Malavai was probably in a terrible mood, but that didn’t have to mean anything bad.

  
In fact, he was sure it would lead to something really good.

  
Or at least really hot.

  
Reaching his quarters, he could sense the emotions flickering and spilling over from the man inside.  
Anger, frustration, guilt and hurt.

  
Ven’fir sighed, and opened the door. Knocking didn’t matter, only two people ever entered the Commanders personal rooms.

  
Malavai was there, poised and pacing as he stabbed at his holopad with his fingers.

  
He looked up when he heard Ven’fir enter, expression pinched.

  
“He is lucky I didn’t gut him." Malavai snapped, body tense. He looked immaculate as always, and Ven’fir could never say no to that look, haughty and bitchy and spitting fire.

  
He shrugged. “Some people need stabbing.” He said simply, closing the door and closing the distance between them. “But maybe wait until we don’t need him first?”

  
The human sighed, and let Ven’fir rest his hands on his waist, pressed close. Some of the tension bled from his frame.

  
“I will work with him, but I do not have to be pleasant to him.” He muttered sourly.

  
Ven’fir grinned, “I don’t expect a miracle.” He teased, and felt pleased when he saw Malavai smile. The human pressed close, and Ven’fir held him tighter.

  
“We won’t be missed for a few hours.” He murmured. “And you could use a distraction.”

  
He felt Malavai pull away slightly, a small frown on his face.

  
“We have work to do.” He murmured, unsure.

  
Ven’fir shrugged. “And it will be there tomorrow.” He pointed out. “None of it is that pressing, and I know you haven’t taken a day off since you arrived. I bet you didn’t take a single one before you arrived either.”

  
“It’s like you know me.” The human murmured, a teasing blush on his cheeks.

  
Ven’fir grinned, heart fluttering and warm. Fondness desperately wrapped itself around each of his ribs, squeezing and sending warmth to the tips of his fingers.

  
“I know you want to stop thinking for a while.” He muttered, shifting so he could press them closer. He ran his hands up and down the Major’s sides, over his clothes.

  
“Mmm.” Came the reply, tension seeping from the human’s body.

  
Ven’fir began plucking at the stiff wool of the Major's uniform, deftly undoing buttons and shrugging the heavy jacket over his shoulders before throwing it with remarkable accuracy onto the chair in the corner.

  
It was a testament to how distracted Malavai was that he didn’t even protest about creases.

  
Now he had the human down to his undershirt, Ven’fir wasted no time in getting his hands under it.  
Rough fingertips met warm skin, and the human sighed contentedly in the embrace.

  
He loved to run his fingertips over his partner’s skin, over the dips and swells of muscle and bone and the raised patches of scar tissue. Malavai shivered and Ven’fir could feel his breathing become shallow and quick. He loved to touch, and Malavai enjoyed the attention.

  
Like all couples, they often had different moods. Sometimes they were harsh and violent with each other, all snapping teeth and snarling orders for ‘ _faster_ ' or ‘ _harder_ ' or ‘ _take it_ ’. Sometimes it was silly, laughter at funny noises or awkward positions or bed hair. In the mornings or after a long day it was sleepy, mumbled words and slow, warm buildup.

  
Today was needy.

  
Malavai was oddly pliant in his hands, like he was happy to let Ven’fir take control. Sometimes it was what one of them needed, to be taken care of.

Malavai, with his brain full of thoughts and calculations and preconstructions, often found it hard to quiet them, and Ven’fir was only too happy to take him out of his head for a while.

  
His fingers dipped below the waistband of his officers trousers and skimmed over the points of his hip bones.

  
Pleased, he brought a hand up to gently brush the pad of his thumb over one prominent cheekbone, tilting his lovers head to he could lean in and kiss him.

  
Malavai melted under him, looping his arms around Ven’fir's shoulders and kissing back with needy fervour.

  
The human broke away first, cheeks red and breathing heavy, his mouth kiss bitten and red. He gave the Sith a little tug on his belt, urging them towards the bed.

  
Ven’fir went with a laugh.

  
The Sith crowded the human onto the bed, crawling over him and stealing kisses. His thoughts were all consuming, and he was focused on the man beneath him, body warm and pliant under his hands.

  
“Do you want the cuffs?” he asked, mouth brushing the shell of the human's ear. He felt his lover give a full body shiver beneath him, and the small noise that came from the back of Malavai’s throat made him smile. The human ground his hips up, and Ven’fir bit his lip.

  
“Mal, use your words.” He coaxed, gentle. Sometimes Malavai still felt unable to speak up during sex, preferring to try and tell him with his body. While Ven’fir was usually pretty good at interpreting it now, the memories of the beginning of their relationship were painful enough that he needed clear consent.

  
“No, not today.” Came the reply, low and breathy. “Just... don’t you dare stop.”

  
Malavai. Demanding even when Ven’fir had him pinned to the bed with the intention of fucking him silly.

  
He grinned, fond.

  
“Yessir.” He teased, and was rewarded with a little laugh.

  
With quick fingers, he removed his own shirt, pleased that he had forgone his armour that morning. He wasn’t intending on needing it, so he dressed down and was very happy he did.

  
Ven’fir was aware he was a rather vain man, but the bitten lip and hazy eyes he got from Malavai when he took his clothes off was intoxicating.

  
The human wanted to touch, and Ven’fir shivered when rough, warm fingers brushed over his skin.  
He divested Malavai of his undershirt, pulling it up and over his head and leaving his hair a mess. They fell into kisses again, Malavai's hands sneaking low and grabbing a double handful before giving an appreciative squeeze.

  
“I need to get the stuff,” he managed, laughing as Malavai kept laying kisses on him as he tried to move away. He got free, laughing as his lover looked disappointed by their lack of contact.

  
He fumbled with the little bottle of slick and a spare towel as he shut the drawer with his knee. It wasn’t the most suave move, but he supposed Mal knew him well enough to be aware that he wasn’t really very suave anyway.

  
Malavai had managed to get his boots and trousers off in record time, and Ven’fir had to stifle a laugh as he watched the human, aroused and in only his underwear, carefully fold his uniform.

  
“Babe, I’m going to finish myself off if-"

  
He never finished his sentence as his lover turned with a displeased expression. “Don’t you dare.” He interrupted, eyeing the little bottle.

  
Ven’fir grinned and flopped onto the bed, wiggling his hips as Malavai removed his pants for him.

  
His lover dragged himself back up his body, which was kriffing hot, and settled over him to kiss him.  
The kisses turned into nibbles on his neck, something he knew Malavai liked doing. The man liked to use his mouth, and Ven’fir certainly wasn’t going to complain.

  
He felt his partners mouth move to his collarbone, and then his chest, pausing to make his gasp as he did something wonderful with his tongue.

  
He continued downwards, licking and nipping at green skin, before settling over his hips and pressing a kiss to fabric covered flesh.

  
Inpatient, Malavai didn’t waste any time getting his lover into his mouth, and Ven’fir was sure he almost blacked out for a moment at the sensation.

  
If Malavai was anything, it was a perfectionist.

  
It also really, _really_ helped that he liked having his mouth full, and Ven’fir wound a hand in his lovers hair as he bobbed his head. They were relaxed and sprawled over the large bed, Ven’fir appreciating the way he could see down the Major's back as he worked, his body pliant and slack.

  
Fiery tingles raced down his nerves and made him groan. It felt amazing and seeing Malavai close his eyes as he worked made him weak.

  
Really, Imperial geneticists were a bunch of horny perverts, to remove the gag reflex.

  
What did they think people were doing to do with that, _not_ take cock down their throats until they choked?

  
... or maybe it was _natural_?

  
Ven’fir, whose throat was best described as ‘twitchy', hoped Malavai wasn’t disappointed by his significantly more conservative approach. Still, what he lacked in dick sucking ability, he more than made up for when using his mouth in _other_ places.

  
Malavai looked up at him through dark eyelashes, and it was devastating. Ven’fir bit his lip, and dug the nails of his organic hand into the skin of his palm.  
He reached over and gently wrapped his flesh hand around that pale throat. He didn’t squeeze or apply pressure, just let his hand rest there. By the way his lover moaned, it was appreciated.

  
He nodded, raising his eyebrows in askance. He needed some kind of obvious confirmation.

  
Malavai’s hands, which were resting on his thighs, squeezed as he blinked up at him. He pulled away for a moment, mouth swollen red and slick with saliva.  
Ven’fir was so desperate for him it hurt.

  
Malavai’s eyes were hazy and he was already going under, but he nodded. “Please. Yes.” He rasped, voice hoarse.

  
Ven’fir cupped his cheek and the human leaned into the touch.

  
“Mal?” he prompted, and the human gave him a small, dazed smile.

  
“Red, yellow, green. One tap for harder, two to let go, three for stop.” He recited.

  
Grinning, Ven’fir nodded and moved to get a better angle.

  
He watched his lover for a moment, taking in his rumpled hair, hazy eyes and how his skin was flushed and warm with want.

  
“I’m going to fuck you after this,” he sighed happily, “So hard you scream.”

  
His lover shivered, and positioned himself between the Sith's legs.

  
Sometimes Malavai just wanted to submit, to be taken care of. He wasn’t into humiliation or even really pain, but when his head was too full of thoughts to quiet, he just wanted to hand the reigns to someone else for a while. It wasn’t like this all the time, and sometimes it was Ven’fir that needed to be taken care of, but it was good.

  
It had taken them a long time and a lot of mistakes to get to this point, utterly comfortable with each other.

  
So when Malavai took him in his mouth again, working at it until his nose was pressed against Ven’fir’s belly, he was more than happy to wrap his hand around the humans throat and squeeze. The aim was not to hurt him, but to create the feeling of a head rush as pressure was put on his carotid arteries.

  
The humans eyes fluttered shut, his hands firmly on Ven’fir's thighs. His grip tightened, but he didn’t tap out.

  
Ven’fir's other hand, his cybernetic one, wound into dark hair and kept the human's head back just enough to comfortably fuck his throat. He was gentle and slow on purpose, but it was enough. They weren’t usually so extreme, but they both seemed to be in the mood for it and it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to get a little bit wild while they had the chance.

  
Ven’fir realised he could feel the movement of Malavai's throat around him through his hand, and almost lost his battle with his own body.

  
Holy _kriff_ that was filthy hot.

  
It was easy to get lost in the sensations and the visuals, watching dear prim and proper Quinn moan as Ven’fir fucked his throat and kept his grip on that pale, slender neck. His hair was a mess, saliva smearing his mouth and chin as he took what he was given with enthusiasm. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be ‘far away', in his own little world. One hand one was Ven’fir’s thigh, the other between his own legs.

  
Then, just as Ven’fir was beginning to feel the strain of holding himself back, he felt two strong taps against his thigh. Ven’fir pulled his lovers head up gently, enough so that he wouldn’t choke if he lost control.

  
With a grin, he gave a quick squeeze before letting go completely, barely noticing the change in pressure as his attention was completely on how Malavai gave a almost pained sounding moan around what was filling his mouth, his whole body tensing and shuddering as he crested his release. His eyes were closed in bliss. Ven’fir barely noticed the rush of cool air as the human pulled away, he was so focused.  
Ven’fir held him through his shakes, drawing him close as they began to subside and the human couldn’t support his own weight any more.

  
“I’m here,” he murmured, running his fingers through dark hair flecked with silver. “You’re so perfect.”  
Malavai didn’t respond with words, but he moved to curl up in Ven’fir's arms and make a pleased noise in the back of his throat.

  
Ven’fir held him until he came back up, blinking blue eyes up at his Sith lover. He pressed close, coming back to his senses. Malavai always seemed to recover quickly, but Ven'fir would hold him as long as it took. He hadn't done too far under this time, not like he sometimes did with their longer, more in depth sessions.

  
“That was... good.” He murmured, voice hoarse and barely audible. He moved his hips, tired but still interested. “You promised something earlier.”

  
Ven’fir ran a palm over his partners back, feeling the faint bumps of his spine.

  
“I did,” he assured, “You want to go now, or catch your breath first?”

  
Malavai moved under his hands, pressing close and moving a hand to brush a feather light touch over where the Sith was still straining and painfully ready.

  
“In a minute.” He said simply, skin flushed with afterglow and desire. His voice was hoarse and husky, and it _did_ things to Ven'fir. He bent his head and kissed the Sith, warm and passionate and sated.

  
Ven’fir would never get enough of this. He drank him in, wanting to be completely wrapped up in him. He stayed close, not wanting to leave while he lover was still putting himself back together. He kept skin contact, running his fingers over his spine and talking in a low, soft murmur. He was on the edge himself, but he savoured it. The wait was half the fun.

  
Sometimes Malavai could be trouble, but it was the kind that Ven’fir knew he wouldn’t want to live without.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said there would be steamy bits and then completely neglected to provide any actual steam?
> 
> Well here, enjoy my first ever piece of smut.
> 
> Malavai is kinkier than Ven originally thought he would be, but he's certainly not complaining. It's taken a long time for them to get to this level of trust and comfort, but it's good for both of these two adorable switches. Malavai tends to enjoy it more often than Ven does, but Ven has his moments. 
> 
> Mal likes the rough stuff, and Ven is more a fan of teasing and sensation play.
> 
> Neither of them are into extreme pain or humiliation, but Malavai definitely has a praise kink. Ven'fir loves to indulge that one.


	15. Keeping a secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaesa will not let this stand. If Captain Quinn intends to reign vengeance and pain on Zakuul, she wants in.

Jaesa Willsaam was a woman who knew things.

  
She didn’t always mean to, but knowledge wasn’t always something one could avoid, especially the kind of knowledge her power gave her.

  
So, when she felt the first flickers of something from Captain Quinn after they were finally in Imperial hands once again, she didn’t say anything.

  
She had avoided looking to closely at him through the view of the Force after Wild Space, frightened of what she would find.

  
Vette had cried as she had told Jaesa what had happened when they went to search the lists for Ven’fir's name.

  
The Captain was stone faced and too pale, dark circles under bloodshot eyes.

  
His hands shook.

  
He barely interacted with them, billeted as they were on a transport to Dromund Kaas. He worked too hard, his duties done to exacting precision as always. Even when he finally took a break, he was working.

He was looking after them, she realised when they were bunked together after being told they would all be separated. He wasn't looking after _himself_.

  
Vette tried to spend time with him, but he gently shooed her away.

  
Vette had said it would have been better if he had shouted.

  
When the burning roil of emotion was too much, she was compelled to find him. She was afraid for him, afraid of the tidal wave of dark emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

  
She knocked on his door, and received no answer.  
She opened it anyway, and her heart clenched.

  
The Captain was sitting on the bed, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking.

  
He was crying, sobs wracking his body as he clutched something close to his mouth, pressing a desperate kiss to it as he cried.

  
When he looked up at her as she entered, she could see that it was his wedding ring.

  
His expression was like a nerf in headlights, and he hastily turned his face away, drawing a sleeve over his eyes.

  
“Yes, Jaesa?” he muttered, voice thick from tears. “What do you need?”

  
She didn’t know what to say.

  
“I’m sorry,” she managed, head swimming. The hurt in the air was unlike anything she had ever felt. It felt like falling.

  
The Captain looked up at her, tears beading his eyelashes. He looked embarrassed, tired and so _sad_ it hurt to see.

  
She swallowed painfully.

  
“I... I know you want to be alone right now.” She said haltingly. “But I need you to know that you don’t have to be. I’m here. So is Vette.”

  
She didn’t bother to mention Pierce or Broonmark.

  
“I wont force you,” she assured firmly, finding her voice.

  
Ven’fir had been working with her to become more assertive. She supposed she would have to finish her lessons on her own now.

  
“But please, don’t think you’re on your own. If you need us, we’re here. If you don’t... that’s fine too. Just please, don’t hurt yourself. He wouldn’t want that.”

  
Immediately she knew she had said the wrong thing as his eyes blazed and anger spiked in the Force.

  
“Stop talking like he’s dead.” He snapped, mouth pulled into a snarl. “He isn’t, until I see a body.”

  
Jaesa let out a slow breath, discomfort curling in her belly. She was still figuring out her  _own_ emotions, let alone other peoples.

  
“And I have no intention of hurting myself,” he continued, tone grim. “I’ll hurt the ones who did this. Every last one. I’ll _burn_ them if I have to.”

  
Something in his tone struck a chord with her, the feeling of dark, righteous vengeance that had been simmering in her own belly igniting into a flash of heat over her skin.

  
“ _Yes_.”

  
He blinked, surprised. She clenched her fists.  
“I intend to make them pay.” She murmured, and her eyes itched. Flecks of amber had lent her brown eyes warmth recently, and she knew it was because she was mixing her teachings. It was gradual, slow.  
At her pace. It was less of a fall and more of a controlled decent, all under the careful eye of her Master.

  
It felt right. Jaesa was not a Jedi, and she wasn’t really a Sith.

  
She was Jaesa, and no one else would mould her into anything else. Just like her Master, she didn’t fit into a box.

  
This heat felt different. Like the embers she had been gathering before were nothing compared to the rush of wildfire that spread through her.

  
“I don’t know where to start,” she admitted, “But I will search for him and I’ll hunt them down if they hurt him.”

  
He gave her a measured look.

  
“Are you sure?” he asked carefully, “I will not be merciful.”

  
She ignored how that made her feel, the rush of heat again. She thought of Vette. Sweet, kind, bubbly Vette, who was so dulled by the loss of her best friend that she barely even wanted to be around Jaesa. The ones that took Ven’fir had also taken Vette, in a way. That would not stand.

  
“Good.” She bit out, her nails leaving crescent in her palms. “I am his Apprentice. He taught me more about myself and the galaxy in the last year than the Jedi did in a decade. He is my Master.”

  
She couldn’t stress the bond enough. He wasn’t just her teacher. He was family.

  
He had given her everything.

  
She took after him in more ways than people realised. She would hunt and she would enjoy it.

  
Dear, kind Vette wouldn’t understand. Well, she _would_ , but she was too kind for the work Jaesa was itching to get started with. She didn't want Vette to change the way she looked at her.

It would have to be a secret, at least for as long as she could keep it one.

She had never thought of Captain Quinn as a particularly cruel man, but ruthlessness burned in his eyes as he watched her. That was good. They would need that.

  
She stood tall, and she was sure the fire in her gaze matched his. They had both lost something precious, and they would tear the galaxy apart to find it, or avenge it.

  
She nodded, eyes feeling hot and nails digging into her palms.

  
“I don’t intend to be merciful either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have this headcanon that Jaesa basically changes her alignment to match that of the SW. Light stays Jedi, Dark becomes Sith.
> 
> Ven is very much grey, so I thought that Jaesa should be too. Ven'fir wants to teach her properly about the nature of the Force, especially the Dark Side. He never got that, and it almost caused him to go full Dark Side maniac, which frightens him.
> 
> He wouldn't let that happen to Jaesa.
> 
> Malavai is too efficient to wallow for long. Even grief is a motivator, even if it is just for vengeance.


	16. All I have left is this photo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, you didn't think Quinn took on Zakuul alone did you?

“I heard he was in prison for _treason_.”

  
“ _I_ heard he was court marshalled.”

  
“Well, someone told me he was captured by the Republic, that’s how he got those scars.”

  
Private Neyon Grellen was new to Tempest squad, but they had earned their place.

  
They sat with their squad mates, fire burning between them as they sat around it. Their tents were behind them in a perfectly measured circle around the fire, and it barely felt like they were outside with the nearness of the tents and their teammates.

  
Dolu was cleaning her rifle, expression grim as she worked. The two cybernetic fingers on her left hand worked just as dextrously as her flesh ones.

  
Ygren lounged by the fire, her fur streaked with ash and smuts, a wide grin showing dangerously sharp teeth.

  
Neyon had never worked with an alien before, and had been unenthusiastic at the prospect.

  
Ygren wasn’t so bad, even if she was a bit unnerving in her appreciation of violence. Her Republic accent unnerved them, but the Cathar had well and truly burned her bridges with the Republic when she defected.

  
Caspir was out hunting, the easygoing Captain happy to take his turn to acquire food. He was their medic, and Neyon was pleased to not have had to require his skills yet.

  
Kal, their sniper, was lounging with Ygren, the two trading rumours.

  
Neyon had no idea how to pronounce Kal's actual name, but the Chiss has just winked at them and told them to use ‘Kal' instead. Kal was kind and cheery, and he was probably Neyon's favourite, even if he was an alien.

  
Neyon liked to listen, so they inched closer to the two aliens, curious.

  
“I think he works with Sith Intelligence, personally.” Ygren drawled, poking the fire with a stick she had found.

  
Kal's eyebrows rose. “You think so?” he wondered, “Caspir might know.”

  
Ygren snorted, her fur, tawny with stripes across her head and limbs, shivered in the breeze. “Caspir is dedicated to that man,” she scoffed. “We're as likely to get information from a rock.”

  
Kal chuckled, and glanced to Neyon with a slight smile. “What do you think, Neyon? Aren’t you curious about Major Quinn?”

  
Neyon was curious. Really, really curious. “He seems so... detached.” They admitted, sighing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.”

  
Ygren shrugged. “I haven’t ever seen Dolu smile either.”

  
Kal grinned, and looked over at their teammate. “Dolu is a sweetheart, aren’t you babe?”

  
Dolu, a woman with dark skin and eyes who was roughly the size of a mountain, glared and went back to cleaning her rifle, her biceps straining against her shirt.

  
Kal’s grin widened. “She loves me.” He said with an airy wave of a gloved hand.

  
“She looks like she would love to strangle you.” Neyon pointed out.

  
Kal shrugged with an easygoing grin. “I have that effect on women.”

  
Considering how Kal was _gorgeous_ , Neyon doubted that.

  
Moving on.

  
“You have that effect on most people.” Ygren muttered, smirking.

  
Neyon caught movement out of the corner of their eye, and tensed even as the shadow stepped into the light and revealed itself as the Major, the very man they had been talking about.

  
With his features thrown into relief by the fire and the way his uniform hugged his legs, Neyon couldn’t say they didn’t appreciate the view.

  
“Sir,” they greeted, respectful. The others made various sounds of greeting, and the Major nodded to each of them in turn.

  
Tempest squad didn’t exist after all, and that separation from the rest of the Empire drove tight bonds. None of them were new to black ops, and had been handpicked for the squad.

  
“I don’t suppose you have left me any caf?” the Major asked, moving to sit on a spare rock by the fire. There was plenty of room on the ground with them, but the Major always had seemed detached.

  
Kal, as dauntlessly cheery as ever, smiled and poured a fresh mug, the chipped metal around the edges showing how much use it got.

  
The Major murmured his thanks, and Neyon saw him about to get up and leave.

  
They wanted the man to stay. They noted how he wasn’t wearing his gloves for once, the muggy heat and inclement weather making it deeply uncomfortable to wear leather for long. A ring was on one finger, a wedding band of dark metal inset with a simple line of silver.

  
“I didn’t know you were married, sir.” They observed, and regretted it when the Major’s gaze sharpened and he reflexively hid his hand. The rest of the team had already heard, however. They all looked surprised.

  
“Yes,” the Major said stiffly, uncomfortable. “I got married four and a half years ago.”

  
Neyon sent a smile his way, and got nothing in return.

  
“Is your partner still on Dromund Kaas?” they asked, hoping to sate their curiosity and ease the man into conversation. He always looked so tired and sad when he thought no one was watching.

  
The Major looked away.

  
“No.” He replied after a pause. “He was on the _Warrior's Solace_.”

  
The words filled Neyon with something heavy and desperately sad.

  
The _Warrior's Solace_ had been Darth Marr’s ship. Its destruction had been the beginning of a long and painful road for the galaxy. The name was synonymous with loss and mourning. A huge memorial had been constructed on the home world to honour those hands lost on board. The names numbered in the thousands.

  
Neyon understood a few things then. The detachment, the tired sadness that the man dragged around with him like a blanket, and the burning hatred of Zakuul. Major Quinn was no Sith sadist, but the brutal, ruthless precision their team operated with was from his direction. Tempest squad fought the war against Zakuul with shadows and pain, and every last one of them was there because they wanted to be. Most of them had lost things. Neyon certainly had.

  
No one seemed to know what to say, and Neyon saw how the Major looked about to leave.

  
“Sir? What was he like?”

  
The Major paused, surprised. “Excuse me, Private?”  
Neyon took a breath, nerves steeling. “I asked what he was like, sir.”

  
Major Quinn swallowed, his expression odd.  
“I... He is Sith.” He said suddenly, and seemed to surprise himself with his response. Maybe he hadn’t meant to answer.

  
Neyon felt their eyebrows raise. That was not what they expected. A quick glance at his teammates told him that they had also not expected that.

  
Major Quinn seemed awkward, and Neyon didn’t want him to stop. His commanding officer was interesting in ways they hadn’t expected to care about.

  
“He is a flirt,” the Major murmured, “And he is a bit of a brat. He is younger than me.”

  
Dolu, who they hadn’t noticed pausing in her work, jerked her head. “What was his name?” she asked, her voice deep and rumbling. Neyon was surprised to hear her say something that wasn’t a grunt or insult.  
The Major turned his gaze on her, and Neyon was quietly watching how steady he was. The team were _interested_. They _wanted_ to hear about his lost lover. They _cared_ enough to ask. The Major seemed to surprised, Neyon got the feeling few others had bothered.

  
“Ven’fir. Ven’fir Quinn.”

  
“I don’t recognise the name.” Ygren said suddenly, “Did he have a title?”

  
Major Quinn, perfectly poised with his hands around his battered mug of caf, gave a small smile.

  
“Yes.” He said simply. “He has several, but most people know him as Darth Venator.”

  
Neyon boggled. “You were married to a _Darth_?” They asked, feeling a little foolish for their outburst when the Major’s gaze settled on them.

  
“I _am_ married to him. They never found a body." He said, tone belying traces of emotion. “And until they do, I will never let Zakuul rest easy.” He murmured. “And if he’s gone, I’ll burn their whole empire down around them.”

  
Neyon swallowed hard. “My sister was an apprentice. She told me about Darth Venator. He was the Wrath, wasn’t he?”

  
Quinn nodded quietly, still keeping his posture perfect. “Yes.” He said simply. “He is.”

  
Ygren’s eyes reflected the fire light. “He’s Mirialan.” She murmured. “I remember seeing a holo of him once. I never thought aliens could be part of the Empire until I saw him and Nox.”

  
Kal turned to the Major, a small smile on his kind face. “You got a holo of your man, Major? I’ll show you one of my wife.” He wheedled, and Dolu smacked his arm hard enough to make the Chiss wince.

  
The Major gave a little smile, seemingly more at ease with them. Kal had a gift, to put people at ease so well.

  
Ygren barked out a laugh. “I don't have anyone at home but my ma and my pa, but you can have some holos of them and my pet sleen if you like.” She grinned.

  
Kal held up a little holopad, and winked at the Cathar, his crimson eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll trade you one of my wife for one of your sleen.”

  
“One of my brothers for one of your wife, Chiss.” Dolu spoke up, and Kal looked delighted.

  
“Dolu old girl, I knew you couldn’t resist joining in eventually!” He laughed, and Dolu rolled her eyes.

  
Neyon smiled. “My sister died on Korriban during the Republic siege, but I have some of my friends.” They admitted. “And my grandmother. Want to see, Major?”

  
Major Quinn seemed like a statue, blue eyes watching as his team teased eachother and talked about their loved ones.

  
“I... yes. Please.” He managed. “I only have the one holo left.” He admitted.

  
Their gossip from earlier resurfaced in Neyon's mind.  
He had been in prison for treason. Treason was a capital offence in the empire, and one was not offered the opportunity to commit it again. The Major was a dedicated patriot as far as Neyon could see, and his dauntless mission to hurt Zakuul made him wonder just what the Major had been doing to land him in Imperial shackles and not in front of a firing squad or on the end of a lightsaber.

  
They supposed it didn’t matter, not right now.  
They reached into their pack, slightly muddy from their hike through the jungle, and withdrew their holopad.

  
The Major was a quiet listener, and Neyon enjoyed talking about their friends as they showed their commanding officer their holos. It felt a bit immature, but Kal and Dolu were showing off pictures of their loved ones, the Chiss excitedly telling story after story and Dolu chiming in to throw him off with sarcasm of an insult. Ygren cackled at their banter and occasionally had a holo to add.

  
“Major? May I see your holo?” they asked, eyes on the holopad hanging from the Majors fingers, the man having pulled it from his own pack.

  
Wordlessly, the officer turned it on and handed it over.

  
It showed a scene in scorching sunshine, and the dunes in the back told them it was probably Tatooine.

  
A man in Sith armor stood front and centre, matte black pieces over a tight under suit, a dark robe thrown over the top. He was green skinned and grinning, showing sharp canine teeth and highlighting the geometric tattoos on his face. A scar ran over his nose, and his hair was a mess of dark curls. His eyes blazed a deep Sith amber, fading into orange around the edges, standing out on a handsome, sharply featured face. He had a cybernetic arm around the shoulders of a young Twi'lek woman, her blue skin bright against the beige desert. She was laughing without reservation, and her skinny frame looked dwarfed by the Sith next to her.

  
To the other side was the Major, and Neyon couldn’t say he wasn’t easy to recognise. The bars on his uniform told them he was still a Captain when it was taken, and his face was unlined and free of the many tiny shrapnel scars littering one side, or the subtle cybernetics that threaded through them. The Sith had his arm around him too, much more intimate than with the Twi’lek. The human had freckles on his pale skin, and goggles hung around his neck, his hair ruffled by the wind. He was smiling, his eyes on the Sith instead of the camera, leading Neyon to believe the three of them didn’t know they were being photographed.

  
Neyon had never seen a Sith look so... normal.  
Sith were amazing, terrifying and awe inspiring. To see one laughing and goofing off was jarring.  
Seeing the Major, stone cold and ruthlessly pragmatic, smiling like he knew how was unbelievable.

  
Neyon looked at the image again, trying to memorize it. They felt something deeply sad about the whole thing, and almost regretted asking.

  
They didn’t, though.

  
“Thanks, Major.” They said instead, and handed the holo back. “You should show Kal. He’s desperate to show off his wife.” They grinned, casting their eye over to the Chiss, who was waxing poetic about his beloved wife. “And Dolu said she had one of her brothers.”

  
The Major gave a small smile, barely there and tired. “Sounds like everyone has something to go back to.” He murmured.

  
Neyon shrugged. “Not always. I have my friends, but my grandmother doesn’t know who I am any more and the rest of my family is dead because of either the Republic or Zakuul.”

  
It hurt a little to talk about so candidly, but Neyon had never been a soft person.

  
“I’m here because the Empire is my home. I signed up to fight for it, and that’s what I’ll do.” They said simply, meaning it. “I’m with you, sir.”

  
The Major looked a little surprised and rather overwhelmed, but he soon collected himself.

  
“Of course, soldier.” He said simply. “You’re my squad, and we are what makes Zakuulans afraid of the dark.” He murmured.

  
Neyon nodded. “Caspir should be back soon, sir.” They observed. “I think he’ll be upset he missed out on all the holos.”

  
The corner of Major Quinn’s mouth lifted.

  
“I feel like I’ve known his children since birth, the amount of holos I’ve seen of them.”

  
Neyon grinned. “We shouldn’t deprive him, sir.”

  
Major Quinn was an enigma, but Neyon was pleased he had caught a glimpse through the cracks.

  
Tempest squad was born from fire and loyalty, from shadow and vengeance.

  
Each of them was risking everything for an Empire that would never know their names. If they died, there would be no graves for them, no carvings on a memorial.

  
The Major would lead them into hell and they would follow him gladly.

  
Zakuul would burn before they were finished, and Neyon wouldn’t want anyone else at their back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the ambush and imprisonment, Malavai was alone again. The crew was gone. He hadn't seen Jaesa since the ambush.
> 
> Lost and angry, he made a deal with the devil, and built a squad to bring the pain to Zakuul in shadows and fire. They're his, but he's still wary of them.
> 
> Think Havoc, only more... Empire.
> 
> Fun fact, Jaesa was the one who took the holo!


	17. It wasn't really stealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following on from Chapter 12, Ashara has her first week aboard the Fury.

Being aboard the Fury was an... experience.

  
At least the layout was the same as the _Orphia_ , which helped Ashara navigate, at least.

  
The Wrath and his crew were... interesting.

  
Darth Nox was no bubbly BFF, but the Wrath had been a _terrifying_ concept of a Sith.

  
Brutal, arrogant and with a reputation as a bit of a rogue, Ashara really couldn’t think of anyone she was less likely to get along with.

  
Besides, her and Nox had been through a lot. She understood him as she knew few did, and he did the same for her. Underneath the titles and the power, there was a person.

  
And Ashara liked that person. Usually.

  
Still, Darth Venator, Wrath of the Empire, was not someone she wanted to be in close proximity with for long.

  
They had met the previous day, and what an entrance that had been.

  
She had been waiting with her Master in his office, the Miraluka having gone over in detail what the exchange would entail.

  
The droid had let them know Darth Venator was on his way with his own Apprentice.

  
Indeed, it was quite startling when one was used to the relatively subtle Nox, who tended to _slink_ rather than stride.

  
Darth Venator _stalked_ into the room, powerful in gait as well as presence.

  
He was Mirialan, which she already knew, but seeing him in person was still surprising.

  
Her own Master was an alien, but the Miraluka were human enough that sometimes she forgot he wasn’t.  
Venator made a beeline for them, a human woman in robes trailing behind him.

  
Her skin was bronze and held no sign of Sith corruption, but her pupils were ringed in amber, fading into warm brown. She was pretty and assured, a double bladed saber hilt hanging from her belt.

  
Ashara tried to figure her out. After all, she would be basically taking her place for a while.

  
“Nox,” Venator greeted, and his voice wasn’t the brutish growl she had expected. He sounded... normal. Imperial accent with all the bells and whistles, but otherwise unremarkable.

  
He was grinning, showing sharp teeth and smile lines around his eyes. Those eyes burned a true Sith amber, bleeding into orange the colour of lava around the edges.

  
It made her wary.

  
“Venator.” Her own Master greeted, sounding pleased. He stood, and gave a quick bow to his fellow Darth.

  
Huh. Her Master respected Venator enough to _bow_.

  
“And you must be Ashara,” Venator grinned as he turned his attention on her. That attention was rather like standing front of a playful nexu.

  
She nodded, resolute. “Correct, my Lord.” She murmured, refusing to look away. She wasn’t some simpering Imperial after a Sith's favour. “Ashara Zavros.”

  
To her surprise, he inclined his head in a gesture of respectful greeting. The Empire and it’s rules never failed to confuse her. Nox had taken a long time to teach her, just like he had taught himself.

  
“A pleasure, Ashara.” The Wrath said pleasantly. His smile didn’t dim. “I’m Ven’fir.”

  
No house name. Nox had told her about that.

  
Disowning. Harsh.

  
“And this is my Apprentice, Jaesa Willsaam.”

  
Huh. Ashara remembered that name from before. It reminded her of Tython, and suddenly it came back in a rush. Jaesa had been a padawan, she was sure. She was certain she had heard talk of her before.  
And now she was Sith.

  
That hurt, even though she knew it had no right to.

  
Jaesa stepped forward, and smiled. It was a nice smile, friendly and pleasant.

  
She bowed to Nox and nodded to Ashara.

  
“A pleasure, Darth Nox. Apprentice Zavros.”

  
_Apprentice_ Zavros.

  
That still sounded so strange.

  
She wondered if hearing _Lord_ Zavros would sound better.

  
The Wrath beamed.

  
“Right! So, have we got everything sorted? I’ve briefed my crew, and Jaesa is prepared.”

  
Jaesa smiled again. “The crew are eager to meet you, Apprentice Zavros.” She admitted. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, but they’re a decent bunch. Just... loud.”

  
Venator snorted. “Loud? I’ll say. It’s like corralling a herd of wild Oro.”

  
“My Lord, you’re the worst of them.” Jaesa pointed out, “Malavai would agree with me.” She added as he began to open his mouth to object.

  
“Of course he would.” The Wrath grumbled.

  
Ashara sent a pleading look at her Master. These people were _weird_.

  
Nox pretended not to notice.

  
“Paperwork is all sorted, Malavai handled that bit.” Venator said, waving a dismissive hand. “I got yours through this morning.”

  
Nox nodded. “You are aware you are supposed to fill that out personally, yes?”

  
The Wrath gave him a look. “I hate paperwork. Also, I’m no good at it. Malavai loves paperwork, so I got him to do it. It makes him happy. I just signed where he told me to.” He admitted, amused.

  
Jaesa didn’t look convinced.

  
“My lord, I dont think Captain Quinn actually likes doing paperwork. I just don’t think he can stand it if it’s done wrong.”

  
Venator shrugged. “Same difference.”

  
He brightened up. “Right, are we ready? Jaesa, got all your stuff?”

  
Ashara watched as Jaesa’s expression turned fond. “Yes, Master.”

  
“Don’t forget to write, and whatnot.” He said, frowning. “Vette will be upset otherwise and you know I can’t handle that.”

  
Jaesa nodded again, and she looked about ready to roll her eyes. “Yes, Master. I’ll even make sure to eat my vegetables.”

  
The Ashara's surprise, the Wrath's cheeks turned a cute shade of brown as he flushed.

  
“Quiet, you.” He muttered, and scooped her up into a hug.

  
Ashara was aware she probably had an expression like a Oob-fish, but seriously, what.

  
She glanced at her Master, who was stone faced as usual.

  
“... bye.” She managed.

  
Nox tilted his head. “Do enjoy yourself.” He said simply.

  
Ashara glanced to where Jaesa was being placed back on her feet by a suspiciously teary Wrath.

  
“Uh... right.”

* * *

  
Ashara was still half convinced that the Wrath was actually a homicidal maniac and would snap out of his cheery routine and go on a killing spree.

  
He was _way_ too friendly.

  
Nox assured her that, while the Wrath was Sith and everything that entailed, he wasn’t the ‘murder-happy' kind of Sith.

  
That only made Ashara feel slightly better.

  
Darth Venator smiled as he chatted to her, and she got the feeling he talked a lot.

  
The man was only an inch or so taller than the tips of her montrals, making him rather average in stature for his species. His armour was matte black and surprisingly practical for a Sith. His gauntlets were tipped in curved metal claws, and one arm was cybernetic.

  
She was very curious as to how he had lost the arm, but she refrained from asking. Maybe when she felt more at ease with the man.

  
Introductions were made, Ashara feeling rather uncomfortable as the Wrath summoned his crew to the ships conference room.

  
A human officer, slim and dark haired, offered her a formal bow.

  
“Apprentice Zavros.” He greeted, a distinct Kaasian accent meeting her ears. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Captain Malavai Quinn, welcome aboard.”

  
He was very formal, and his presence in the Force was aloof and reticent. She wasn’t particularly good with Force signatures, but had never really needed to be.

  
He was _pretty_.

  
“Thank you, Captain.” She replied, feeling at ease with him. Nox' crew weren’t the overly friendly kind (excepting Talos), and his professional detachment was soothing to her frazzled nerves.

  
The Wrath smiled, and she noted that it was softer when it was directed at the Captain.

  
A bouncy looking Twi'lek was next, practically vibrating with excitement.

  
“Hi, I’m Vette!” she grinned, and Ashara immediately liked her. “I hope this big lug has been courteous.”

  
The Wrath frowned. “I’m a fucking delight.” He objected. “I’m being _nice_.”

  
Vette looked amused. “Your version of nice involves flirting and _trying_ not to threaten someone.”

  
The Wrath scoffed. “Hush.”

  
Vette smirked and sent a wink Ashara's way.  
Ashara couldn’t believe the young woman was still alive.

  
A big soldier stepped up. He had strange ginger facial hair and he wore his hair in a strange striped style.

  
He leered at her, and she immediately didn’t like him.

  
“Hey pretty lady,” he introduced, and she saw Vette glare at him. Captain Quinn sneered. “I’m Pierce. Pleasure to be working with you.”

  
He kept smiling, and she would honestly have taken the Sith’s smile over this guy's.

  
She managed a stiff greeting, feeling his eyes on her.

  
“And this is Broonmark.” Venator introduced, tone more subdued.

  
The Talz stepped forward and said something in a buzzing language Ashara couldn’t catch all of.  
She was awful at languages.

  
Something about ‘fellow warrior', ‘blood', and ‘Sith-kin'?

  
She just nodded, and the strange Talz retreated.

  
“You know me, of course.” Venator waved a hand dismissively.

  
She really didn’t.

  
“Yes, my lord.” She murmured, already feeling so unbelievably out of her depth.

  
Captain Quinn stepped forward smoothly.

“Apprentice Zavros, I have had quarters prepared for you.” He said simply. “Vette, would you show Apprentice Zavros around?”

  
Vette, seemingly pleased with this task, nodded. “Sure!” she beamed, and bounced over to where Ashara stood, awkward. “Come on, I’ll show you around. No need to stick around this group of nerds for any longer than we have to.”

  
Ashara, already following, heard Captain Quinn sigh and Darth Venator make an offended noise that sounded like ‘ _oi_ '.

  
At least Vette was sort of normal.

* * *

  
It had been around a week since she had joined their crew, and most of it had been spent in hyperspace.  
She was settling in decently well, which she hadn’t really expected. Vette was a delight, which was a relief.

  
She didn’t interact with Broonmark much, and actively avoided Lieutenant Pierce. The man wasn’t creepy, but he made her uncomfortable in a way that made her want to punch him.

  
Captain Quinn was busy, and she honestly had no idea how one person could get so much done in a day.

  
Darth Venator was... weird.

  
He was cheery and easygoing, but he fought like a monster. His presence in the Force was massive, and it felt like a firestorm.

  
Used to Darth Nox's tingling, heavy presence, it was quite the change. If she was to compare the two, Nox was stronger in the Force, but the Wrath was _explosive_.

  
He preferred saber combat, and she could see why. Between Nox and Venator, the Wrath took the medal for martial discipline.

  
Not a single unit of energy was wasted. He was blisteringly fast and agile, and his acrobatics put her to shame.

  
(He admitted, completely without shame, that dance classes and Zeltronian yoga were great for keeping yourself flexible)

  
With two sabers in his hands and the Force at his call, she understood why armies fell to him.  
He was a good teacher.

  
She was enjoying her lessons and she already felt like her saber combat had improved.

  
The crew dynamic was difficult to get used to, especially after the general quiet and privacy of the _Orphia_.

  
It was loud.

  
Vette and Venator didn’t have a quiet bone in their bodies, and Pierce didn’t seem to understand night cycles. He seemed to do tasks that made the most annoying noises only when Captain Quinn went to bed.

  
Ashara _really_ didn’t like him.

  
The Captain was a bit stuffy and sarcastic, but the poor man deserved sleep as much as anyone.  
Still, he seemed to finish his shifts after everyone else, and was up before them all too.

  
She liked being up early herself, taking a few quiet moments in the morning to simply sit and be with a nice cup of caf.

  
She sipped on the hot drink as she listened to Vette and Quinn chat as the Twi'lek got her breakfast and the Captain cleared the remains of his own meal away. They were bickering about something, but she wasn’t sure what. Knowing those two, it could have been anything.

  
Group meals were something she would miss when she returned. It was nice.

  
The sound of the door opening didn’t rouse her from her thoughts, but Vette's incredulous tone did.

  
“Ven, what in the _kriff_ are you _wearing_?”

  
Ashara couldn’t have known it, but Darth Venator was not what one would describe as a ‘morning person’.  
He needed food, caf and kisses before he was even vaguely functional in the morning.

  
Not necessarily in that order.

  
He had gotten none of those things today, which explained his state of fuzzy headed confusion, and that fact that he was definitely not the image of the big bad Wrath, bane of the Republic.

  
And so, Ashara Zavros got to experience the fun of their resident Sith waking up late.

  
She glanced up, and immediately saw the what Vette was talking about.

  
The Wrath, sporting bed hair and a bleary expression, was wearing a t-shirt at least two sizes too small, and pants that were dragging on the floor with how long they were (they were also too small, but Ashara was trying not to look). The shirt was faded grey from repeated washes, and was emblazoned with the washed-out logo of the Imperial Military Academy.

  
Captain Quinn's cheeks were pink, even as he sighed.  
Vette gave a bark of laughter. “Ven, those are definitely not yours.” She sniggered.

  
Venator was wearing someone else’s clothes? Why?

  
Oh.

  
_Oh_.

She looked at Captain Quinn, and saw how he was blushing and trying not to eye up the tempting expenses of flesh that the too tight clothes did nothing to hide.

  
The Wrath just blinked at Vette, and looked down. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  
“So? At least I remembered to put a shirt on.”

  
Vette smirked. “Looks like you had to find pants to put on too.”

  
Venator checked again, and shrugged again.

  
“Yeah. I mean, I could wander around naked if you would prefer-"

  
“That will not be necessary, my lord.” Captain Quinn sighed. “I did wonder where those had gone. I should have known you'd stolen them.”

  
Venator waved a dismissive hand as he poured himself some caf. Absently, Captain Quinn filled a plate and put it in front of the Sith as he moved to dry the chipped dishes. Venator shot him a grin.

  
“It’s not stealing,” he defended. “It’s uh... _indefinite borrowing_.”

  
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “And I assume you have ‘indefinitely borrowed’ my hair gel too?”

  
Venator put on a charming smile that fooled no one.  
Ashara was fascinated. This was like one of her Sullustan dramas.

  
“You wouldn’t want me to leave the ship looking shabby, would you?”

  
Quinn rolled his eyes. “I would like you to leave the ship having made yourself look presentable using your _own_ things.”

  
Venator, grinning, caught him around the hip as he walked by and gave him a squeeze.

  
Fond, the Captain bent his head and pressed a kiss to his temple.

  
If there was any doubt that the two were involved, Ashara felt it drain away.

  
She hadn’t been expecting that.

  
It was kind of cute, though.

  
“Turnabout is fair play though, Captain.” The Sith baited, smirking.

  
Captain Quinn raised an eyebrow, conveying silent disapproval as only an Imperial could.

  
“Oh?”

  
Venator, looking supremely pleased with himself, gave the Captain a saucy wink.

  
“After all, you’ve ‘ _indefinitely borrowed_ ’ my heart.”

  
There was a beat of silence before Vette groaned and made a gagging noise, and Ashara couldn't stop the wave of giggles that bubbled up and overtook her.

  
Captain Quinn's cheeks were pink, and his expression was long suffering and fond.

  
“That's awful.” He said simply, wrinkling his nose. “Quite possibly the worst joke you’ve ever told, and that’s saying something considering you told that horrendous zoo joke last week.” He said flatly, unable to keep a small smile from his face. “And that one made me want to hurt you.”

  
Venator, laughing, gave the Captain a squeeze around the waist and looked at him like he had personally hung the stars that streaked by outdoor the windows.

  
Ashara felt her stomach twist, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation.

  
Not so long ago, she would have killed them both if she could have.

  
That was painful.

  
Still, she wasn’t the sort of person to dwell too much on the past. The future caused enough worry as it was.

  
So she smiled and let herself be drawn into conversation.

  
This wasn’t so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The zoo joke:
> 
> Ven: "The other day I saw a piece of toast in a cage in the Axial Park zoo...  
> It was bread in captivity!"
> 
> Everyone else on the Fury: *sighs*


	18. A place I pass by every day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MODERN AU
> 
> Ven is BASIC.

* * *

_The Dread Bean_ might have had a ridiculous name, but they did the best coffee in the city.

  
Or so Ven’fir would maintain.

  
In reality, it was on the good side of average and the cake selection was subpar.

  
What it did have was a host of regulars from the university, plus Ven’fir.

  
He pushed open the door and ignored the kitschy little bell, his eyes scanning the small seating area as he joined a queue for service. It was stupidly early, and only the truly dedicated or those with early shifts were out. The little shop opened early to catch the morning crowd who came through for first lectures.  
Ven’fir had been to the gym. He shuffled forward a little, casting a discreet eye about the place.

  
There he was.

  
Ven’fir almost sighed out loud.

  
The man sitting in the corner table nearest the window was the reason he passed by this little coffee shop every single day after the gym, even though it was several minutes out of his way.

  
Pale and dark haired, the man was typing away on a laptop, a pair of vaguely fashionable glasses perched on his nose. The early morning sun made his pale skin look like it was glowing.

  
A flawlessly starched collar peeked out from under a v-neck sweater, and the stubble clinging to an angular jaw was well kept.

  
He was going grey at the temples, and Ven’fir _loved_ that.

  
Apparently, Ven’fir’s superpower was the ability to romanticize every fucking thing about someone, clearly.

  
He rattled off an order to the barista with the ridiculous hair, barely thinking about his request.

  
If he sat in the right place, he could moon over his favourite stranger in relative peace and secrecy.

  
Ven’fir wondered what his name was.

  
What did his voice sound like?

  
Did he drive?

  
Would he be a screamer in bed?

  
Ven’fir bet he was kinky.

  
What was his favourite food?

  
He could think about him all day.

  
Sometimes, he did.

  
One might imagine Ven’fir to by a shy individual, mooning over his crush, completely unable to voice his feelings to the object of his affection.

  
Ven’fir was _not_ a shy man.

  
Indeed, it had been remarked upon by several of his friends his complete inability to stop talking, and his absolute lack of shame.

  
So, plucking up courage wasn’t the problem.

  
Ven’fir had tried to talk to the man every single time he had seen him, and some cosmic act had prevented him every time.

  
Yesterday it had been a full cup of the cafe’s Wednesday special, the iced ‘ _Outlander_ ’ frappucino, landing in his lap.

  
The waitress had been very apologetic and had blushed like a tomato. He had gotten her number.

  
The day before, he had been late and arrived just as the man was leaving.

  
The day before that he had run into an old friend who had talked for so long that by the time he got his coffee the man had gone.

  
Today however, he was determined.

  
He sat down at the a table perfectly angled to spy unobtrusively on the DILF of his desires, and he let his imagination run wild.

  
Most of his thoughts involved beds, bodies and a complete lack of clothing.

  
Some thoughts were mushy cute, like imagining their perfect first date.

  
(Which would be followed by the previous thoughts, if all went well)

  
He sipped his ‘ _Marr-sterpiece_ ’ cappuccino, another of the specials.

  
Mmm, tasted like competence.

  
Fuck, that guy was gorgeous.

  
He could cut himself on those cheekbones, and he wanted to see those glasses fucked off his face.

  
He wouldn’t be wearing anything else, braced on his hands and knees, and Ven’fir would fuck him so hard the glasses would slide down his nose.

  
Feeling pleased with were his thoughts were going, he pretended to scroll through his phone, sneaking glances where he could.

  
His profile was so damn pretty, Ven’fir felt like he should paint him or something.

  
He was a terrible artist, but it felt right.

  
He couldn’t sing either, so a cheesy one hit wonder about his affections was out too.

  
He could dance, but what good was that right now?

  
(Ven’fir had only one word for people who laughed at his hobby. _Flexibility._ )

  
He was so well put together in a nerdy sort of way.

  
Lovely.

  
Ven’fir drained his drink, standing up to get another.  
He ordered another special (why were there so many?), and returned to his table with a ‘ _Nox-ious Brew'_ (the specialty tea blend) and the drive to ask the pretty stranger out for a drink of the more alcoholic variety.

  
He took a sip, and almost moaned.

  
That was _really_ good tea.

  
He tried to see what the DILF was drinking, but he couldn’t see what was in the cup.

  
Pity.

  
He watched for a little longer, scrolling through his phone and tweeting his thoughts on the new _Robo-Jawa-Cop_ movie.

  
Decent effects, so-so plot, great soundtrack, 7/10.

  
_Robo-Jawa-Cop 9_ was better.

  
Vette said most of his followers were there for his shirtless gym selfies and not his film critiques, but what did she know?

  
Okay.

  
No more drinks or he was going to need to pee right as he introduced himself, and that would be the worst.

  
‘ _Hi gorgeous, I’m Ven’fir. I have to pee._ ’

  
Yeah, great opening line.

  
He stole another glance and definitely sighed out loud.

  
The man was peering at his screen, bringing his mug to his lips as he worked.

  
Vette said Ven’fir wouldn’t know real work if it bit him in the ass.

  
He worked!

  
It was hard, being the heir of a international, multi-million pound company.

  
He had to show up to galas sometimes and shake _so_ many hands. Boring.

  
He was diverting.

  
Taking a breath, he stood up from his chair.

  
He was determined. Not nervous at all, no no no. Just... determined.

  
He strode over, a charming smile on his lips.

  
The man looked up curiously as a shadow fell over his table, and Ven’fir was almost struck dumb by how blue his eyes were.

  
He was so lovely, it hurt.

  
“Hey,” he managed, smiling. “My name is Ven’fir. Can I buy you a drink?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda love this AU. Might do a little extended piece for it!
> 
> Ven is a basic bitch, but we all knew that anyway.


	19. Nobody can explain what happened next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New recruits to the Alliance are always welcome. That's not to say it can't sometimes be awkward.

There was a saying somewhere (probably a lot of somewhere’s) about how ‘if you build it, they will come'.

  
Come, people most certainly had.

  
The Alliance was growing, people flocking to them in droves.

  
It made security a nightmare, but that was a small price to pay. No one got on a shuttle to Odessen without extensive background checks, and the locations where people were told to go if they wanted to join up were overflowing.

  
They didn’t exactly have holo-ads out for recruitment, and telling any interested party to head for Odessen was just asking for spies. So, designated locations were distributed to hopefuls, who were security checked and, if they were clean, put onto quiet, regular shuttles to Odessen.

  
Theron didn’t have the time to review every new recruit, but the security teams sent a report on each ‘high profile' individual that came across their desks.

  
Theron had been a little late reading the most recent one.

  
He was beginning to suspect that would prove to be a painful mistake.

  
The Commander tended to like being at the hangar to meet particularly large groups, so Theron was flat out sprinting to reach it in time.

  
It was an awkward time for some, working with former enemies.

  
Some embraced it, others did _not_.

  
Seriously, he liked the hangar as it was. If the Wrath got into in it with the person on that shuttle, Theron feared for Odessen itself, let alone the Alliance base.

  
Lana was supposed to handle this.

  
She was Sith, and at least more able to withstand being torn to shreds by angry Force users.

  
What did she expect Theron to do, stop them with his witty repartee?

  
Theron could handle himself, he knew that, but people like the Wrath were so far above his weight class it wasn’t even funny. The kind of people who could bring down _battlecruisers_ on their lonesome were not people Theron felt comfortable pissing off.

At least not within Force-choke distance.

  
Several new faces trickled past him as he skidded around the corner, and that made his stomach lurch.

  
They were already disembarking.

  
Oh _kriff_.

  
Theron may have been as Force blind as they came, but he was sure he could feel the echoes of spitting Force signatures even as he entered the hanger, scanning for the Commander.

  
Who... was face to face with the very person Theron had rather hoped to keep quiet about until they could ease into the topic.

  
Brilliant.

  
“I’m going to be honest and say I did not expect to see you here.” Theron heard the Commander drawl, his arms crossed. He winced.

  
“And I didn’t think I would ever come face to face with you again without my weapons drawn.” Came the reply, tone prickly.

  
They regarded each other for a second that felt like an age to Theron, who was quietly hyperventilating in the corner.

  
“Wrath.” The newcomer greeted slowly, mouth pulled into a unhappy grimace.

  
“Battlemaster.” The Commander replied, unimpressed.

  
The silence was awkward, and Theron kind of wanted to comm Lana for backup. Or Senya. She was used to wrangling Force users that could topple skyscrapers, so she should be fine, right?

  
To his absolute surprise, the Commander suddenly uncrossed his arms and gave a respectful nod. It was stiff and awkward and he didn’t take his eyes off the Jedi, but still.

  
“Ven’fir Quinn, Darth Venator and Empire's Wrath.” He introduced himself, amber eyes watchful. “Alliance Commander.”

  
The Jedi in front of him regarded the Sith like he was a live bomb, or perhaps something mouldy. He nodded anyway.

  
“Beryon V'lante, Jedi Master and Battlemaster of the Order.”

  
They both seemed to be trying to growl the other into submission.

  
Theron had worked with Master V'lante before. He was... well, if Theron was being honest, he was kind of a dick. He didn’t think he had ever heard so many curses come out of one Jedi. The man made most Sith look like cheery optimists in comparison. He hadn't known Jedi could be so permanently  _angry._

  
He was also a bit of a flirt when he was in the mood, and Theron had had the feeling that the Jedi would actually make good on his promises.

  
Theron hadn't been able to say no. Master V'lante was attractive in the ways Theron liked the best and it was flattering to have a Jedi interested in him. They hadn't seen each other for a long time.

  
The Miraluka was tanned, rugged and had a nice smile when he bothered to show it.

  
Great ass.

  
Theron dragged his thoughts away from the Jedi for a moment, mentally scolding himself.

  
Ugh, he was a mess.

  
“How's the face?” The Commander asked with a mean smile, amber eyes bright.

  
The Battlemaster's expression was something close to violent. The three scars running down his face were pronounced, and for the first time Theron wondered how he had got them. They looked like claw marks.

  
He pointedly refused to look at the Wrath's clawed, gauntleted hands.

  
“Fine. You didn’t hit anything too important.” Came the spitting reply. “How’s the arm?”

  
The Commander bared his teeth in an attempt at a smile. “Replaced.” He said, tone saccharine and Theron winced. “Got an upgrade after you wrecked the previous one.”

  
The Jedi smirked.

  
“Such a pity I couldn’t give you a matching set, one on each side.”

  
The Wrath sneered. “I can still choke you with them just fine.” He murmured, eyes blazing.

  
Theron could see people avoiding the two like the plague, casting worried looks over at the two titans facing off. The tension was palpable, and Theron likened them to two apex predators, circling one another, testing for weaknesses.

  
The Commander folded his arms again, tapping clawed fingers on an arm guard.

  
“So, you’re here to join the fight against Arcann?” he asked, tone measured.

  
“No, I’m here for the _delightful_ company.” The Jedi sneered.

  
The Wrath's expression didn’t change.

  
“You failed to kill one Emperor, how do you think you’re going to help kill this one?” he asked as though the Jedi hadn’t even spoken.

  
“With compassion and teamwork, of course.” Master V’lante replied firmly. “That's the Jedi way.”

  
The Commander blinked in surprise.

  
“Really?”

  
“No,” Master V’lante scoffed. “If I meet him, I’m going to punch him into a fucking sun.”

  
The Sith considered for a moment, before holding out a gauntleted hand.

  
The Jedi looked down at it in surprise.

  
“I give the orders, you follow them.” The Commander said sternly. It was the most serious Theron had ever seen him. “If you have input, kriffing say it. Don’t keep you mouth shut if a plan is shit. Hlavi-custard day is on Centaxday. Don’t bother Theron when he’s six cups of caf deep in a conspiracy, you’ll lose fingers. Lana will find you some duties for when you’re not punching people into suns. How do you feel about teaching?”

  
The Jedi was quiet for a moment, before he shrugged.

  
“I don’t like kids, but I had a padawan and she turned out... kinda okay.”

  
Theron, or anyone else, would not be able to explain this to anyone. This was... he didn’t have the words.

  
Master V'lante reached out and shook the offered hand, firm. His expression was one of faint disgust, like he couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  
Theron thought they were about to crush each others fingers.

  
They were standing close, body language all tense and wary.

  
The dips and swells of muscle showing from under tight leather and armour.

  
Lovely, shapely, _firm_ -

  
No, not the time.

  
The Alliance was the best thing that had happened to Theron, but it wasn’t doing anything for his sex life.

Or lack thereof.

  
What he wouldn’t give to be sandwiched in the middle of _that_...

  
No. Down boy.

  
The Wrath gave a smile, all sharp teeth and unnervingly bright amber eyes.

  
Master V’lante was stone faced, set in some perpetual unhappy grimace. Theron knew he always looked like that. Theron didn’t mind.

  
“Welcome to the Alliance, Battlemaster.” Ven’fir greeted, and the look he gave the Jedi was intense and would have sent lesser men running for the hills.

  
Master V'lante just gave a humourless, crooked smile, and inclined his head.

  
“The pleasure is all mine, _Commander_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Jedi Knight, part time sass-master and full time angry prick.
> 
> He's a bad Jedi, but (mostly) a good man.
> 
> You know, mostly.


	20. Staring at my reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years can change a person a lot.

It wasn’t often that Malavai looked at himself, nowadays.

  
Captivity, prison and war had taken their toll on him, and he barely glanced in mirrors anymore.

  
Just a quick look to smooth his hair out of his face or drag a sonic-razor over his cheeks before he was turning away.

  
He didn’t like what stared back at him with dull, cold blue eyes.

  
It was easier in the field, where mirrors were hard to come by anyway. He wasn’t so vain he packed a compact with him on every mission.

  
Besides, the kinds of missions he and his team got sent on meant that, if things went well, no one would even know they were there, let alone _see_ them.

  
So, his physical appearance wasn’t something he liked dwelling on any more.

  
What if, when he found Ven, he didn’t recognise Malavai?

  
That hurt.

  
What if Ven did recognise him, but couldn’t bare to look at him any more?

  
That hurt _so much more_.

  
He stared.

  
His reflection stared back.

  
He looked tired.

  
The dark circles under his eyes were the first thing he noticed.

  
The cybernetics were the second.

  
They were subtle as far as milspec implants went, but the thin web of scars covering the side of his face was sheened with the occasional glint of metal and the threads of silver that fed into one eye.

  
He had been lucky not to lose that eye completely, the doctors had told him.

  
Republic medics had done a decent job of patching him up after he took a grenade to the face, and they had saved his eye as well as they could. After all, a dead Imperial was not a talkative Imperial.

  
The vision had still been half ruined, blurry and warped.

  
The Kaas City hospital had done an excellent job of fixing him up, although his injuries had been left untreated for too long to avoid scarring.

  
The Republic might as well have branded him.  
He sighed, and fixed his lapel.

  
He hadn’t put his gloves on yet, and the threads of metal running through the back of his hand caught the light.

  
He ignored them.

  
Ven had always seemed so confident about his arm.  
He'd lost an entire limb and after the initial anger and shock, picked out the replacement model and asked Malavai if he should add gold racing stripes to it.

  
And here Malavai was, bitter about a few subdermal enhancements that kept him stitched together.

  
The ring on his finger felt far too light for such a heavy thing.

  
He adjusted his lapel again.

  
The suit was tailored and fit perfectly, but he felt uncomfortable wearing it.

  
He was used to wearing prison jumpsuits or fatigues, and the suit felt restrictive.

  
He had bulked up a bit since leaving the hospitality of the Republic, hating how thin and weak he felt.

Prison hadn’t done him any favours, but boredom could be filled with work or the gym.

  
He didn’t really mind which, as long as he wasn’t left with only memories and thoughts to occupy his time.  
Besides, prisoners that were seen to be ‘slacking off' caught the attention of the guards, and that never ended well.

  
The only ones who could get away with it were those with... special agreements. Either the financial kind if they had the credits on the outside, or more commonly, the _other_ kind.

  
Malavai was ashamed to admit he had been tempted to negotiate his own _agreement_ after the war with Zakuul had left the prison with food shortages that claimed more than a few lives.

  
Some of his block mates had died in their cells, wasted away from hunger.

  
Field work certainly hadn’t left him soft, but that came with more scars again. He didn’t mind those so much. Those didn’t have any memories attached to them.

  
The event he was dressing up for was on Dromund Kaas, and he was not looking forward to it.

  
Anyone of rank usually ended up going to one or two during their tenure if they were able, and to avoid such events was a considerable social faux-pas.

  
Malavai hadn’t attended one in a very long time. He hadn’t been _invited_ in a very long time.

  
Ovech had sent him the invite, and he couldn’t turn it down.

  
If it had been from anyone else, he would have.

  
Ovech was his friend, and to not turn up to his friends promotion party (to Moff, no less), would have been unconscionable.

  
So, here he was with a bow tie around his neck like a noose, only four knives and a holdout pistol on his person.

  
His hair was pushed back from his face, except for a stubborn strand that refused to stay put. It bothered him, but he would have to leave it.

  
If he added more gel he would look like he had dipped his head in shuttle fuel.

  
Stars, he was going so _grey_.

  
His stubble was trimmed and his gloves were on the side, waiting for him to slip them on.

  
Black leather, warm and supple from use. They felt like armour.

  
Ven would have been excited for the party.

  
Any party, really.

  
A whirlwind of outfits (all in black, of course), hair product and polishing his arm.

  
He would talk and schmooze and charm his way through the people, fear and awe nipping at his heels as he made a dent in the booze and the food. He would leave broken hearts in his wake.

  
Malavai would have been on his arm, holding on for dear life.

  
He would rather be anywhere else.

  
A jungle, a desert, a fucking ship in the void, _anywhere_.

  
There was a knock on the door, and he started, jumpy. He sighed, and resisted the urge to run fingers through his hair.

  
“Sir? Taxi's ready.” Kal sounded a little worried through the door and Malavai really wished he wouldn’t.

  
His team were planetside too. Their expressions when he had announced an entire 48 hours of shore leave were the highlight of this mess.

  
Caspir and Kal had agreed to accompany him despite him not giving any indication that it was required at all. He had actually said the _opposite_.

  
Caspir had received an invite from his father in law anyway, but Kal just seemed to know everyone and had wrangled an invite by smiling at someone who wasn’t put off by blue skin and red eyes. He had probably finangled it from his wife.

It was strange really, how Kal managed to know things like this. He must have had friends in high places indeed to get an invitation so quickly.

  
He snagged his gloves as he cross the plush carpet of the hotel room and opened the door after checking the peepholo.

  
Kal was there, looking striking in a white suit. His dusky blue skin and black hair contrasted nicely, his black shirt immaculate under his jacket.

  
Malavai almost wished he had his confidence.  
Kal shot him a grin as the door opened.

  
“Looking good, sir.” He complimented, cheery as ever.

  
Malavai just made an annoyed noise, pulling the door shut after him. The lock buzzed and the holo-display turned red.

  
Kal, undaunted, continued on.

  
“I’m excited.” He admitted as they walked. “I love fancy parties. I used to be invited to lots of them when I was back in the Ascendancy.”

  
Malavai didn’t remember asking for an escort or a companion, but it seemed that the talkative Chiss had designated himself to be both for the night.  
“That makes one of us.” He murmured, sour.

  
Kal chuckled. “This isn’t your scene, sir?” he asked innocently, and smirked when Malavai sent him a dirty look.

  
“Not in the slightest.” He muttered, pulling on his gloves.

  
The elevator was mirrored on the inside, and the too-bright lights made it hard not to notice his pallor, the circles under his eyes or the flashes of cybernetics under his skin.

  
The threads leading to his eye glittered, and he clenched his hands, hearing the leather creak.  
He looked at the floor, which was the only bit not covered in mirrors.

  
A light touch at his shoulder had him jumping, glancing up to see a concerned looking Kal.

  
“Sir? You aren’t alright so I’m not going to ask, but... can I help?” he asked, crimson eyes expressive.  
Malavai hadn’t ever met a Chiss so quick to show emotion before, but Kal was a soothing, bright presence.

  
Also, the man could hit a Kaasquito from a kilometer away with his rifle, and Malavai liked having a sniper of the Chiss' calibre on the team.

  
It made him feel much more secure to know their guardian angel with a high powered sniper rifle was watching over them.

  
He aimed a tiny smile at the Chiss.

  
“I’m fine.” He said simply.

  
Kal scoffed, removing his hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and his wedding ring was matte black on his finger.

  
“Banthashit, sir.” He gave Malavai a lopsided grin. “But okay, I’ll pretend I believe you.”

  
He paused for a moment, the hum of the lift travelling up their legs as it moved though the hotel building.

  
“I meant what I said earlier. You look good.” Kal said, with a little smile. “You’ll turn heads.”

  
Malavai scoffed.

  
“Since when do I lie?” Kal asked, amused. “Turn the right head and maybe you’ll take back some company.”

  
The words were playful but Malavai felt his stomach drop anyway. Anger was hot and fleeting.

  
“ _Lieutenant_.” He snapped, and Kal's back straightened on reflex.

  
He looked a bit sheepish.

  
“Sorry, sir. That was out of line.” He murmured, apologetic. “What I should have said was: Maybe for the next one, you’ll have the _right_ person on your arm.”

  
Malavai’s breath hitched.

  
Ven.

  
“Maybe.” He managed.

  
The Chiss smiled, kind and warm. He didn’t try and touch Malavai again, but he stood close.

  
“For now though, you’ll have to settle for me.” He said, chuckling as he watched the holographic numbers count down.

  
“I can’t match a Darth, but I’m no slouch at a party.” He grinned, and Malavai recognised the bone being thrown to him.

  
He wouldn’t have to navigate this sea of firaxans alone.

  
Kal was good at this sort of thing.

  
He was giving up seeing his wife to help Malavai at a party he didn’t want to be at. From what he had said, she was an Asendancy diplomat posted to Dromund Kaas. She was pretty. Kal certainly showed then all enough pictures of her.

He was giving that up to play anchor to his mess of a squad leader.

  
Warmth bloomed in his chest, and he managed a smile for the Chiss next to him. Kal's eyes crinkled at the corners.

  
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Lieutenant.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mal. :(
> 
> At least his team are decent people, if apparently unable to follow specific orders to leave him alone. 
> 
> The insubordination is how they show they care.


	21. I should have lied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vette doesn't like it when people assume.

When they had pulled her aside, Vette had been sure she was about to be interrogated.

  
Yavin sucked, but at least it was pretty and she got to people watch all she liked. She hadn’t seen many Jedi up close that weren’t trying to kill her.

  
She had complicated feelings about Jedi.

  
On one hand, they had been her childhood fascination. She had dreamed of having powers of her own, kicking ass and looking good while she saved everyone.

  
Which kid _didn’t?_

  
On the other hand, she had been hunted by them and they frequently tried to kill her best friend.

  
Usually he deserved it, but _still_.

Come on.

  
Their aloof kindness had once been something to emulate, but now she found it hard not to feel uncomfortable near them.

  
Vette was a child of the big bad world. She was streetwise and she knew the score.

  
She tried to do the right thing, she knew she did. Jedi righteousness sometimes grated her the wrong way. Talk didn’t cut it when you were living off scraps and picking pockets to survive.

  
She got that they were trying to help. She _did_.

  
It was just... where had they been after Ryloth? They hadn’t been there when Vette had needed them, but they sure as kriff showed up as soon as she partnered up with a Sith.

  
They liked to talk a lot. Action seemed to be lacking. Some of them were okay.

  
Ugh, she didn’t know. She was rambling.

  
In her own head.

  
Right, stop that.

  
She looked up at the Jedi staring at her. There were three of them, and they looked young, maybe only a year or two younger than she was.

  
“Uh, can I help you?” She asked, baffled.

  
One of the Jedi, a confident looking Nautolan girl, tilted her head. The human next to her looked blankly cold, and the Cathar had such sad eyes pointed her way Vette thought the Republic could weaponize them.

  
“It’s okay, he’s not here.” The Nautolan said with a kind smile.

  
Vette was drawing blanks.

  
“Who isn’t where?” She asked, confused.

  
The Cathar's sad look intensified.

  
“You’re safe now.” He said, aiming a smile her way.

  
Vette scowled. “When people ask questions, it’s usually polite to answer them.” She muttered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  
The human, a unfortunately featured girl with a small nick in her ear, frowned.

  
“The Sith.” She said, as though this should have been obvious.

  
Vette blinked.

  
“Oh. Well, I know that. He’s off training with Jaesa at the moment.” She answered. “Not sure when he’ll be back, he said something about teaching her balance. Literally, I think.”

  
If their faces had been sympathetic before, there was something hard in their expressions after they heard Jaesa’s name. Vette didn’t like that.

  
She scowled. “Hey, don’t... don’t _eyeball_ me.” She snapped. “If you have something to say, say it with words.”

  
The Nautolan tilted her head. “We are not here to talk about Padawan Willsaam.” She said at last.

  
“ _Apprentice_ Willsaam.” Vette corrected, annoyed.  
They didn’t acknowledge that she had spoken.

  
“The Sith, Darth Venator, he isn’t here.” The Nautolan continued. “You don’t need to be afraid any-"

  
Something clicked in her head.

  
“You think I’m... I’m his _slave_?” She asked, incredulous. “Do you _see_ a collar on me?”

  
The quiet Cathar looked up, and his nerf eyes were lethal.

  
“W-we just assumed-"

  
“Yeah, you _did_.” She snarled, feeling her nails bite into her palms. A free Twi'lek. What a fucking concept.

  
“You’re with him... willingly?” the human asked, her flat eyes unnerving Vette to the point of shivers. She was creepy.

  
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms, daring them to comment. “I am. He saved my life, he doesn’t treat me like shit and he makes a mean cup of caf.”

  
The Nautolan looked taken aback.

  
Vette suspected these three were padawans, and not Knights. Knights usually weren’t so quick to show their thoughts on their faces.

  
“Oh.” She managed. “I... I see.”

  
There was a pause. It was awkward.

  
“Sith are masters of falsehood, they-"

  
Vette wanted to scream.

  
“This. This is why half the kriffing galaxy can’t stand you sanctimonious, self righteous preachers. You don’t _listen_.” She muttered, sour.

  
The Cathar winced.

  
“Sorry.” He murmured, painfully awkward. “Feliyat didn’t mean... I mean, she didn’t realise how uh, close you were. To the Sith, that is.” He looked very much like he would be blushing if he wasn’t covered in fur.  
Vette blinked.

  
“How... hang on, do... do you think I’m- oh no. No, no, _no_. First of all, no. Second of all, how fucking dare you? Wait, actually first of all how dare you. Just because I’m what? Female? A Twi'lek? That I _must_ be fucking him, and second of all that-"

  
“Please,” the Nautolan hushed her, looking startled. “I didn’t mean-"

  
Vette was on a roll.

  
“What, do you think all non Jedi are just... constantly fucking each other because we can’t keep it in our pants? He’s kriffing _engaged_ and _no_ , it isn’t to me.”

  
She could feel her body growing hot, her breathing heavy and her head foggy. It had been a very long time since she had been so furious.

  
“I’m not his... his... his _Eleena Daru_.” She finished, staring at them as they stared back.

  
This was... it was something so supremely frustrating that Vette couldn’t find the words.

  
She hated the stereotype. Woman and man, unable to coexist without fucking each other.

  
She loved Ven’fir.

  
She knew she did.

  
There was deep affection there, the kind that made her belly warm and her breath short with fondness.

  
There had been a crush at one point, and a lot of daydreaming about arms and muscles and toned backsides and pretty eyes.

  
She had gotten over it with little drama because she was a kriffing _adult_.

  
He was her best friend.

  
He loved her, too. He had told her so, and he was a terrible liar.

  
It felt like that was being cheapened by quick assumptions.

  
How dare they take something that Vette held so dearly and twist into something cheap and shallow?

  
It wasn’t even that they thought she and Ven’fir were involved. She could understand that, given how close they were.

  
It was that she was compared so easily to Eleena, and it hurt. She had  _died._ Malgus had killed her because she made him weak.

Vette wasn’t Vette, not to the galaxy's eyes.

  
She was ‘Twi'lek woman’ and that was the end of it.

  
She wasn’t a slave any more.

  
She never would be again.

  
Putting on a glare she had learned from Ven, she watched them glance at each other.

  
She suspected that it was more potent coming from the slab of muscle and Sith eyes that masqueraded as the Wrath, but she was pretty sure she was doing it justice.

  
“I am not his slave.” She enunciated, “And if you ever try and save me from him again, you’ll find out the Sith is not the only one you should watch out for.”

  
Refusing to deign to hear their reply, she turned on her heel and marched back through the camp.

  
That had probably been a mistake.

  
She wouldn’t get any help from the Jedi now, and she could bet that she would end up on several lists on SIS databases.

  
_Traitor_.

  
Kriff it. She hadn’t been a Republic citizen anyway.

She should have lied.

  
It would have been easier to do so.

  
Still steaming with anger, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  
Vette would never again wear shackles, metal or otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vette is a little more fiery now she's got a Sith at her back, and three padawans with good intentions have learned that the hard way.
> 
> I like to think that the story of Eleena Daru is a cautionary tale to the galaxy now, and Vette is getting damn tired of people forgetting her identity in the face of 'Twi'lek woman'.
> 
> So these poor, hapless padawans who were honestly trying to help (in a very annoying way, granted), got the brunt of it.
> 
> If Ven had been there, who would have been cheering her on. Possibly with pompoms and a chant and a dance routine.


	22. Then the lights went out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malavai doesn't know it, but they're right.
> 
> He will be there for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is description of torture in this chapter. Skip if these things make you feel uncomfortable.

He was tied to a chair when they finally let him see.

  
The cloth was removed from his eyes, and the harsh light made his eyes water.

  
His body _hurt_.

  
His brain felt like cotton wool, and it was hard to think.

  
It was cold.

  
He sat very still, taking stock of his situation.

  
Restrained, in an unmarked cell and feeling like he just got hit by a hovertruck. It was likely he was in enemy hands.

  
Once, he would have counted on a rescue coming in the form of twin sabers and the Dark Side crackling along gauntleted fingers.

  
He couldn’t count on that any more.

  
He remembered some things clearly, like the ambush.

  
They had been on patrol.

  
Normal. It had been sunny, and the rain from the previous day had made everything seem fresh, even as they tried to ignore how tired they were.

  
Jaesa had been very quiet.

  
Zakuulan forces were not supposed to be so close.

  
The ambush was a blur of blaster fire and adrenaline, but he remembered taking cover, shouting orders at his men. Jaesa had had the Force at her fingertips and power behind those amber flecked eyes, but even she couldn’t keep healing for so long.

  
They had dug in, calling for Imperial support.

  
The Republic came instead, drawn by distress calls and the weapons fire.

  
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they said.  
He remembered pain.

  
He had been hit by a round from a sniper, as he pushed Private Morrun down into the dirt. He didn’t know where Jaesa was.

  
Everything was hazy after that, except for the moment the grenade had landed far, far too close.

  
He could picture the shiny casing, how the light on top pulsed for a moment and how his body had felt like he was wading through tar as he tried to move.  
He didn’t remember anything but pain after that.

  
He had woken for a few moments as they worked on him in the field, but they had put him under again.

  
Then again, strapped to a table and with the scent of kolto stinging his nose.

  
Then a cell, but he had barely been awake before they had put a bag over his head and dragged him out.

  
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs.  
Half his vision was off. His left eye was blurred and dark.

  
It made lances of pain shoot through his skull, and he closed his eyes.

  
When he opened them again, his vision was still wrong.

  
“Good morning, Imperial.”

  
He looked up, even that action causing pain.

  
Surprise made his stomach drop. That accent was _Republic_. He had assumed he was in Zakuulan hands.

  
His thoughts were a tangled ball of yarn.

  
He could make out a figure in front of him, tall and burly. He blinked a few more times, squinting.

  
Someone laughed.

  
“You’re quite a mess, soldier.” The voice said, amused. “It took long time to piece you back together.”

  
He swallowed, and something like dread curled around his stomach, and up towards his heart.

  
The man in front of him, from what he could make out, was Zabrak. He was dressed in Republic fatigues, and he was smiling.

  
The man studied him for a moment, interested. He picked something up off a small table, and metal glinted dully in the industrial lighting.

  
The Zabrak held up the tags, and tapped them.

  
“M. Quinn,” he read out, “Imperial Army Captain, going by your uniform. What’s your first name?”

  
Malavai didn’t respond.

  
His arms hurt from where they were cuffed behind his back.

  
The Zabrak chuckled.

  
“Fair enough, Captain.” He allowed.

  
Nonchalantly, he picked through the items on the table.

  
Malavai realised that they were his, and must have been confiscated when he was unconscious.

  
“You carry in impressive amount of gear, Captain. You’re a medic, I see.” He commented, and Malavai was only half listening.

  
The room they were in was permacrete and blankly utilitarian.

  
Aside from the chair he was sitting on, there was only the table with his affects in it, and another chair that sat facing him.

  
Cameras were watching from shadowy corners, but their lights were blank and Malavai couldn’t tell if they were recording or not.

  
He wasn’t sure which was worse.

  
A single door led out, and it was metal and looked tough.

  
A pair of fingers snapped in front of his face, and he almost jumped.

  
His head was... wrong.

  
Had they given him something?

  
The Zabrak chuckled.

  
“Stay with me, Captain.” He murmured, and Malavai noted that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  
The other man made a small, approving sound and held up something small and metallic.

  
“A married man, yes?” he asked, and Malavai wanted to snatch the ring from his hand.

  
How _dare_ he.

  
“Have you been married long?”

  
Malavai stayed silent, but the Zabrak must have seen a look on his face. He laughed.

  
“Oh, what a glare! You Imperials really do have no sense of humour.” He grinned. “Hit a sore spot, did I?”

  
He walked around where Malavai was seated, and the sounds of his boots on the peramcrete made his head ache.

  
“This is a nice ring. New, I think.” He murmured, turning it over in his hands. “Very new. No scratches and the engraving hasn’t dulled at all. Within a year, I would say.”

  
Malavai just stared at him, mouth pulled into a snarl.  
That ring was his. It was all he had left of Ven’fir other than memories, and he couldn’t stand having it in hands other than his.

  
He stayed quiet.

  
“So, you got a sweet little thing waiting for you at home? Maybe a fellow soldier out in the field?”

  
It was probably unwise, but Malavai bared his teeth in a grin at the man.

  
Ven’fir was no ‘sweet little thing’.

  
The Zabrak blinked, before he threw back his head and laughed.

  
“Oh, I like you.” He chuckled. “You’ve got fire. Most Imperials are sobbing for their mothers right about now.”

  
Malavai wasn’t sure if he could believe that.

  
Imperials shared their lives with Sith. Some posturing wouldn’t break a true Imperial. Or so he liked to think.

  
They hadn’t even tortured him yet. He gave the man a challenging look, meeting his eyes.

  
The man smiled, and shook his head.

  
“I said ‘most'.” He murmured, “Not all. Some are like you. They think that because they’re used to Sith that there’s nothing they can’t withstand.”

  
He shook his head, playing sad.

  
“They’re wrong. Each and every one.”

  
He gave a little grin. “You see, I fuckin' hate you Imps. You’re the scum of the damned galaxy. Soon, we’ll put down this ‘Zakuul' and then we’ll come for you.”

  
His mouth twisted unpleasantly, and he stepped close. He was a big man, far bigger than Malavai was. His face was tanned and tattooed, and he looked to be around fifty or so. His hair was greying and his eyes were intense. His uniform was off.

There were no markings, nothing denoting rank or even affiliation. Malavai got the feeling that he was not in the hands of the regular Republic army.

So, who were they?

  
“When we heard your distress call, it was like Lifeday.” He laughed. “A squad of Imps, calling for help. So hey, I thought, let’s go and give them a good old Republic helping hand.”

  
He was close enough so that Malavai could count his eyelashes.

  
“Didn’t think you’d have a fuckin' Sith with you, but she went down easy enough. Exhausted, I think.”  
Malavai's stomach dropped.

  
Jaesa.

  
“Most of your boys didn’t make it,” the man said with a shrug. “Couple made it here with you. Don’t think they’ll last though.”

  
The Zabrak stayed close.

  
“Not unless you tell me exactly what I want to know.”  
Malavai stared him down.

  
The man stared into his eyes for longer than was comfortable, searching for something.

  
He straightened, suddenly. He raised a hand to his ear and muttered something that sounded like an order.

  
Malavai couldn’t hear much on his left side.  
There was a small delay, and the door opened.

  
His he felt his breathing falter as a soldier in a uniform he didn’t recognise marched a figure into the room.

  
The figure was forced into the chair opposite Malavai, and the hood was removed.

  
An Imperial.

  
Jessup, he thought her name was. She was a technician. He remembered her fixing the comm units.

  
She was young and terrified, blonde hair a snarled mess and her brown eyes wide.

  
“Captain-!” she blurted out, and she looked horrified.  
Malavai wondered how bad he looked.

  
The Zabrak chuckled.

  
“How touching.” He murmured, “Your Captain is quite the cold man.” He said to the young woman, whose frame shook.

  
“Let’s see how cold he really is.”

  
With calm and collected poise, the Zabrak withdrew his pistol and put it to the head of the Imperial trembling in front of him.

  
Malavai made an aborted struggle, heart in his mouth.

  
“Now now, Captain.” The Republic officer admonished. “Tell me where the Imperial base is located, and she lives.”

  
His body felt like it was heavy and light all at once. Panic clamped down on his lungs and he could feel himself slipping into lightheadedness.

  
He forced his breathing to stay natural and rhythmic, and his head began to clear.

  
Dread dark deep in his belly, and it made him feel sick.

  
The Imperial base had _everything_. It was their command post on this planet, it had their medbay, their shuttles, their access to Imperial Command. All hidden.

  
If the Republic found it and breached it before it could be purged, every single Imperial soldier  on the planet was at risk. False movements, ambushes, cut off support, bad intel, anything could be fed through to the squads on the ground. Thousands of soldiers.

More, if they got access to the databases.

  
It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  
Malavai _couldn’t_.

  
He shook his head.

  
The Zabrak didn’t seem surprised.

  
“Well, can’t say I didn’t expect that.” He allowed, smile gone. “I wonder, is it because you don’t think the Republic has the balls to do what needs to be done?”

  
He looked at him for a long while, before lowering the blaster to the young woman’s knee.

  
With an almost bored expression on his face, he fired.

  
The sound of the weapon firing was loud in the bare room, but the scream from the Imperial technician drowned it out.

  
A splatter of blood and meat and cartilage stained the permacrete, and the screaming made his head hurt.

  
He couldn’t help but look away.

  
She was still screaming.

  
The soldier who had brought her in grabbed her as she writhed, and clamped a gloved hand over her mouth.

  
They could still hear her, but it was muffled.

  
The Zabrak sighed. “What a pity.” He glanced at Malavai. “You could stop this, you know. She’s going to lose that leg from above the knee anyway, but you can see that she doesn’t lose anything else.”

  
Malavai steeled himself.

  
Already he could feel himself start to disassociate, to slip into that blankly cold state where nothing mattered but the mission.

  
He embraced it.

  
He looked up, challenging. He shook his head.

  
The Zabrak shrugged, and raised his blaster again.  
The soldier let go of the young woman, whose sobs were still half screams.

  
She looked up and her eyes were unfocused and glazed over with pain.

  
“Please don’t-" she begged him, “ _Please_ , I j-just- _please_ -"

  
The blaster fired again and she shrieked, although it didn’t last long.

  
She slipped unconscious from the pain and shock, and Malavai was glad.

  
His ears were ringing.

  
“Nothing to say?” the Zabrak asked, eyebrows raised. “Huh. You lot really don’t care about each other, do you?”

  
He looked like he could smell something foul.

  
“Scum, I tell you.”

  
He nodded to the soldier at his side.

  
“Bring her ‘round.” He ordered, and Malavai wanted to shout.

  
Please, _no_.

  
He stayed silent.

  
A snap of something under her nose had the young Imperial coming to, her sobs and soft wails no less distressing than her screaming.

  
Malavai tried not to look at her legs.

  
“One last time.” The Zabrak said, pointing the blaster to her head.

  
She was half out of it, groggy and her head lolled like a dolls. She looked up through the tears and blood, and she looked like she could barely recognise Malavai.

  
Malavai met her eyes, and shook his head.

  
Something ugly flashed over the Zabrak's face, and Malavai refused to drop his gaze from the terrified young woman's.

  
He knew what was coming.

  
It’s what he would do, after all.

  
The blaster spat out its bolt and Malavai blinked just as he felt something hot and wet splash his face.

When he opened his eyes again, the young technician had toppled to the side and lay still, her face stuck in a slack, surprised expression.

  
Half of her head was gone.

  
Blood pooled on the floor, and he felt some of it drip down his face.

  
Numb, he forced himself to look away, up and at the man holding the blaster.

  
The Zabrak’s expression was furious and intense, his arm still held straight where he held his weapon.

  
Slowly and with great effort, Malavai shook his head.  
The Zabrak stowed his weapon carefully, and signalled to the soldier at his side.

  
Malavai jumped when she grabbed his shoulders to keep him still.

  
“You’re going be here a very long time, Imperial.”

It was the last thing he heard before the bag was pulled roughly over his head again and the lights went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malavai has an inkling already, but these people are not official Republic.
> 
> You didn't think Saresh wouldn't have her own little helpers, did you?


	23. Some might say it's a weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 (Waking Up In A Strange Room), but from Ven's POV.
> 
> For DarthKeto, who asked for it. ;)

For Ven’fir, waking up had always been something he didn’t attach much thought to.

  
It was something that happened, and that was that.  
Sometimes it was good, like after a restful sleep or to a warm body sharing his covers.

  
Sometimes it wasn’t so good, like after a bender that left his head throbbing, or after a nightmare so real he could feel his heart pounding so hard he felt it in his throat.

  
Waking up to Malavai was nice, and the sleepy smiles and murmurs of his name were precious.

  
Waking up alone on a foreign ship, manacles around his wrists and his connection to the Force made so tenuous it felt like a whisper, that was something he wouldn’t _ever_ forget.

  
Opening his eyes, gritty and heavy, after his incarceration in carbonite was also a recurring theme in his nightmares. His eyes had hurt from the lights, and his vision had been so bad he could barely recognise Lana.

  
The doctors had been surprised he hadn’t gone blind.

He didn't tell anyone how much that thought scared him.

  
The time before they had found Odessen was strange. He, Lana and Koth had camped together for safety, but he had felt very alone by himself. He had curled up in his sleeping bag and tried to imagine he was home, on the Fury or at his apartment, tangled in covers with Malavai or sleeping off a hangover with Vette.

  
It didn’t work.

  
The Zakuulan swamp was cold and moist, and the shriek of the local wildlife was foreign and grating.

The air smelled like fresh dirt and moss.

  
Dromund Kaas was similar, but it was humid and warm, and the air always smelled like ozone and petrichor.

  
He missed it. He missed the time that he had left behind.

  
He felt _stolen_.

  
It was a powerless feeling, and he threw himself into his task with single minded dedication to be rid of it.

  
Sleeping on Odessen was easier, with the noise from people outside.

  
Lana had offered to move his quarters because of it, but he had refused. He liked the noise.

  
Silence frightened him.

  
It was cold though, even with the knitted jumper Senya had made for him. It was grey, and she had knitted a pattern into it. Sometimes it went a little wonky, but he liked that too.

  
The knight had blushed when she had pressed it into his hands, murmuring about being bored and how he looked like he could use something warm.

  
He had almost _cried_.

  
Instead he had pulled it on immediately, and given her a beaming smile as she tried not to look pleased with herself.

  
He had hugged her, and felt her shake.

  
It was only later that he realised that Senya probably hadn’t felt a hug for a long time, considering _everything_.

He made sure to do it more often.

  
She seemed to like fussing over him.

  
He made no secret of how much he liked it when she did.

  
Still, not even knitted gifts could mask the cold feeling in his belly when he woke up and remembered that he was alone.

  
Again.

  
On particularly dark nights, he had fleetingly considered finding someone to bring back to his bed.  
He had dismissed the idea quickly. It felt... _wrong_.

  
If Malavai was dead or wanted nothing more to do with him, it wouldn’t have been a problem.

  
(He tried not to think about those possibilities because they _hurt_ )

  
But Ven’fir couldn’t help but remember him in everything.

  
The disconnect had been jarring, after he first woke up.

  
It had felt like only a few hours ago when he had been in bed with Malavai, pressing kisses to pale skin and complaining about the day ahead.

  
He could still taste the caf from their breakfast on his tongue.

  
But it hadn’t been hours.

  
It had been years.

  
He felt something on his cheek and sleep released it’s hold on him.

  
He opened his eyes slowly, already knowing what he would see and being all the more excited for it.

  
Malavai looked lovely in the subdued morning light.  
And in only a towel, too.

  
Ven’fir was probably staring, but he couldn’t help himself.

  
Beads of water rested on his skin, and his hair was standing in damp spikes from where he had dried it.  
Blue eyes were soft and he was smiling, the expression softening the sharp lines of his face.

  
He was different, and Ven'fir shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was.

  
The years had changed him too, so it stood to reason Malavai wouldn’t be the same.

  
The first thing Ven’fir had noticed was that he was _bigger_ than he had been.

  
The officer had never been skinny, but now there was no missing the broadness of his shoulders, the swell of his thighs and arms against the slimness of his waist.

  
The few greying hairs at his temples had changed into something a little more obvious, silver showing as he ran his fingers through his hair.

  
The scars were new.

  
There were so many.

  
The ones on his body were a map that Ven’fir had only gotten the quickest glimpses of the previous night.

  
The ones on his face were harder to hide.

  
They were thin and threaded with subtle cybernetics, and the spidery lines were a map of shrapnel that had caught the side of his body.

  
Thin vines of metal ran through his skin, several leading to his eye, where they disappeared under his flesh. If Ven’fir looked hard enough, he could see them under the fragile skin.

  
A small metallic bud sat in one ear, connected to the web of cybernetics.

  
The grenade must have damaged his hearing on that side, as well as his vision.

  
Ven’fir wanted to trace all the new marks with his fingers, memorize them and learn their stories.  
He had missed so much.

  
The officer smiled at him, and something light and warm bloomed in his chest.

  
“Hey,” he murmured, and Ven’fir would never, ever tire of hearing his voice pitched low and intimate, a little rough from sleep. “How are you feeling?”

  
He already knew his answer, even as he found the humans hand and clasped it with his own.

  
“Perfect.” He said with a smile.

  
If this feeling wasn’t perfection, he didn’t know what was.

  
Neither seemed inclined to talk for a few moments, just happy to indulge in silence and each others company. Ven’fir was running his eyes over Malavai like he couldn’t get enough.

  
He gave the man a sly little grin, feeling giddy.

  
“You’re _naked_.” He said, breaking the silence.

  
He was.

  
He looked good.

  
The human raised an eyebrow, amused.

  
“I have a towel on,” he reminded, pink warming his cheeks. Ven’fir could probably cut himself on those cheekbones.

  
“Doesn’t count,” he muttered, staring.

  
Beads of water stuck to his skin, and Ven’fir wanted to lick them off.

  
Sex hadn’t been top of the priority list the previous evening, when they had been too overwhelmed to do much more than hold each other.

  
Now, Ven’fir wanted to show him how much he still wanted him.

  
Pin him to the bed, and fuck the melancholy out of him.

  
Wanted him gasping, eyes fluttering shut and arms keeping him close.

  
Malavai flushed.

  
“What?” he asked, and Ven’fir didn’t like how defensive he sounded.

  
He had to remind himself that it had been six years.  
He didn’t know exactly the details of what Malavai had got up to in that time, but he doubted it was anything that left him with a healthy appreciation for compliments.

  
“Just wanted to look at you,” he admitted easily, watching how the tips of the officers ears had gone pink. “I love you.”

  
It came out now as easily as it had on their last morning together.

  
He had been expecting some kind of reply, but instead Malavai surprised him by leaning down and kissing him soundly.

  
The kiss wasn’t feather light or tentative as it had been the previous day, but more like affirmation.

  
Malavai kissed like he wanted to savour it, like he might not get the chance later. He kissed like pleasure was rusty to him, and he needed to remember how it felt.

  
It was languid and slow, and Ven’fir let himself drown in it.

  
They parted to breathe, and stayed close. Malavai's nose bumped against his and he pulled back enough to look at him.

  
He was flushed and warm and so _real_.

  
Ven’fir had his arms around him, and they dropped to his waist.

  
“Fuck,” he breathed, unable to keep quiet as he drank his lover in. “I almost forgot how gorgeous you are.”

  
Of course, Malavai took that about as well as he took any compliment that wasn’t about his work.

  
“I think the carbonite affected your eyesight.” He murmured, uncomfortable.

  
Ven’fir had spent such a long time building Malavai up into someone who, at the very least, accepted that other people thought good things about him, even if he didn’t always agree.

  
Now, it felt like they had fallen down hill again, as though their hard work had faded.

  
Malavai had been such a twitchy thing, underneath the steely calm and cool headed dedication.

  
He hadn’t liked to be touched. He slept deeply, but only if all the doors were closed and locked. He couldn’t bare having the Force used on his person.

  
Ven’fir hadn’t helped. He had thought of him as nothing more than a toy and used him like one, until he had opened his eyes.

  
Then, he had done all he could to fix those wrongs.

His, and those who had come before him.

  
He aimed a smile up at the human, lazy and contented. Malavai liked easy and straightforward, even if he wasn’t good at it himself.

  
“Nah,” he chuckled. “You’re just sexy.”

  
That blush was going to kill him one day.

  
He reached up a hand and brushed it over the other man’s cheek. He felt threads of metal and cybernetics under his fingertips. Malavai was very still.

  
“I like the scars,” he said easily. “They make you look like a badass.”

  
Something in the man next to him relaxed, and Ven’fir realised that Malavai had been worried about his reaction to the scars.

  
 _Silly man_ , he thought fondly.

  
_As if I could stop loving you now._

  
Malavai looked overwhelmed, like he didn’t know how to process anything any more.

  
He leaned forward and curled himself against Ven’fir, the warmth of his body bringing shivers to the Sith's spine and flutters to his belly.

  
Malavai pressed himself close, as though he wanted as much skin contact as he could get.

  
Ven’fir wasn’t complaining.

  
They ended up in a tangle of an embrace, just holding each other. Ven’fir could feel warm breath on his skin as Malavai buried his nose in the crook of his neck. He ran his hands over the expanse of the humans back, feeling the weight on top of him start to compress his ribs.

  
He didn’t want to move, though. He had missed this.  
He hadn’t really realised how needy for touch he had been, until now. He was a tactile person by nature and Lana, Theron and Senya had all been on the receiving end of his hugs, but it wasn’t quite the same. He couldn’t _cuddle_ them.

  
Lana awkwardly endured them, and Theron went all blushy and clumsily returned them.

  
Senya hugged like a mother did, all strong arms and fierce affection.

  
Her hugs were his favourite.

  
He smiled as he closed his eyes.

  
The feeling of warm skin under his fingers and the sound of breathing lulled him into bliss. At some point, Malavai insisted on getting up to get the towel off and underwear on, but he climbed back into bed quickly enough, plastering himself over Ven’fir, all warm, long limbs and touch starved affection.

  
Eventually, one of them began to talk. Their voices were low and quiet, as though the sounds were being swallowed by the morning gloom.

  
Some people would tell him he was weak.

  
Foolish.

  
 _Naive_.

  
He tightened his grip on the man in his arms and was rewarded with the feeling of a smile against his skin, stubble prickling until it tickled.

  
He was Sith.

  
Some might say he was _the_ Sith, considering his position as Wrath.

  
Former Wrath? He didn’t think Vitiate had formally stripped him of the title yet.

  
Sith didn’t eschew love, as it was a form of the passion that they held so dearly.

  
It was, however, not the done thing to entangle oneself quite so much as he had done. Love was secondary to power, and it wasn’t talked about in polite company. Almost like it was... shameful.

Everyone knew it happened, but everyone pretended it didn’t.

  
The Jedi feared love.

  
He understood why they would, but he didn’t agree.  
He disagreed with that almost as much as he did the Sith fascination with betrayal.

  
How could this be anything but good? Something so perfect, that was such a balm to his frazzled nerves and shaky psyche, how dare anyone caution him against it?

  
Malavai wasn’t a blushing courtier, needing protection and endangering the mission.

  
If anything, it was the galaxy that needed protection from _Malavai_.

  
He grinned, bringing one hand up to run though almost-dry hair.

  
His lovely, vicious Imperial bloodhound.

  
Malavai sighed into his skin as he trailed his fingers over his spine, pressing a clumsy kiss to his throat.  
Ven’fir had had just about had the presence of mind to tug a sheet over them, but he wished he hadn’t so he could see how Malavai looked tangled up with him.

  
The world outside their door could wait.

  
Accusations of weakness could wait.

  
Suspicious looks and snarling insults could wait.

  
He dreaded Malavai meeting Koth. Koth was an easy guy to get along with until you didn’t agree with him on something.

  
Ven’fir got the feeling Malavai wouldn’t agree with Koth on much.

  
Koth could get fiery, but Ven’fir knew that Malavai would tear him _apart_.

  
Figuratively, of course.

  
He hoped.

  
He grinned to himself, shifting a little and hearing a disgruntled noise come from the man draped over him.

  
Maybe later he could coax Malavai into bed again with the promise of ‘getting to know each other again after six years', and he could kiss away the insecurities that had crept back in while he had left the door unlocked.

  
They were both older now, and debatably wiser.

  
Some might have said love was a weakness, but Ven’fir knew that nothing that felt like this could be anything but perfection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so mean to them recently, so I hope this makes up for it!
> 
> I just like them being cuddly with each other...


	24. Not again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even titans feel fear.

It was warm when Ven’fir woke up.

  
The morning light played against his eyelids, turning the colours into muted tones of amber and blush.

  
He was comfortable, and he smiled to himself.

  
Malavai was back. Everything was _good_.

  
He stretched, feeling the muscles in his back pull and send pleasant feelings throughout his body.

  
He opened his eyes, relishing the comfort of the bed, and the feel of his sheets on his skin.

  
Something felt a little strange, but it probably wasn’t important.

  
It was probably just getting used to having someone around again.

  
He blinked as he glanced over to the side of the bed.  
Malavai wasn’t there.

  
A little put out, he sighed and sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The air was warm on his bare skin.

  
That explained the odd feeling, then. Malavai had probably had something to do, or went for an early breakfast.

  
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and his feet hit the floor. The tiles were warm against his toes.

  
Ven’fir usually preferred the temperature lower than this, so either Malavai had turned it up or it was on the fritz again. Typical.

  
He stood up, and his vision swam.

  
Startled, he swayed for a moment before righting himself.

  
He felt strange.

  
Disconnected.

  
Something was odd, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

  
He brought his hands up to scrub at his face, hoping to wake himself up.

  
He paused.

  
The strange feeling was stronger.

  
Thinking was like his brain was wading through tar.

  
Feeling disconcerted and jumpy, he stayed still.

  
It was quiet.

  
No, it was _silent_.

  
There was no noise save for that of his own breathing and movement.

  
No sound of people moving around, no hum of machinery or air conditioning. No beep of a comm or footsteps outside his door.

  
Panic bloomed in his gut and he all but lunged for the door.

  
It opened under his touch easily enough, the large handle sliding down.

  
The corridor was empty.

  
Everything was neat and tidy and perfectly spotless. The lights were bright in their strips.

  
He was still mostly naked, but he didn’t think about being seen.

  
Panic sent tingles to his limbs and his heart thudded against his chest.

  
He set off at a run down the corridor, bare feet slapping against the peramcrete.

  
It sounded unnaturally loud and clear.

  
He reached the command centre and his breath caught in his chest.

  
Nothing.

Everything was perfectly neat and tidy, but the terminals and galaxy map were powered down.

  
Not even a blinking light interrupted the stillness.

  
His own breathing sounded deafening in his ears and he wanted to scream to make some kind of noise.

  
Where was everyone?

  
He moved to a terminal and pressed some keys, but the surface was dead and lifeless.

  
A datapad lay on a table next to the terminal and he snatched it up, eager and terrified.

  
He pressed the power button and the screen lit up.

  
Feeling a heady rush of something, dread pierced his gut when he saw that it was only a dead battery notification on the dull screen.

  
He set it down again.

  
It hurt to breathe.

  
The galaxy map was dead too.

  
Theron’s little espionage nest was quiet. Ven’fir knew the spy had some fancy tech around, maybe that wasn’t affected by whatever had happened?

  
The long range transponder was dark, but lit up when he tapped at it and his hands shook.

  
No signal.

  
Desperate, he keyed in the holofrequency again.

  
No signal.

  
He tried every frequency he knew of.

  
Lana.  
Theron.  
Malavai.  
Vette.  
Koth.  
House Thul.  
Ogurubb.  
Kaliyo.  
Korriban.  
Darth Vowrawn.  
Jaesa.  
Beywan.  
Dromund Kaas.  
Stars, he even tried Satele Shan.

  
No signal.

  
He was definitely transmitting but... there was no one there to receive them.

  
His throat felt tight and he was beginning to panic. He felt alone, trapped and claustrophobic.

  
Needing to move, he tore himself from the console and ran for the elevator.

  
He hated how clean everything was.

  
Organised.

  
It was like everyone had neatly packed their things up, straightened the place out and just... left.

  
He felt his lungs burn as he jabbed at the controls with shaking hands.

  
There had to be _someone_ here.

  
On the base.

  
On Odessen.

  
There had to be.

  
Malavai wouldn’t have just left.

  
Vette wouldn’t either.

  
Theron would have put up a fight.

  
Lana would have torn them apart.

  
But there was no evidence of a fight.

  
There was no evidence of anything.

  
He gasped for air as he burst into the outside. He didn’t remember the elevator coming for him. One moment he was at the controls, the next he was outside.

  
He felt like he had been sprinting. His lungs burning and his limbs feeling like lead.

  
Everything was silent.

  
No people.

  
No hum of the shields.

  
No animal calls.

  
He couldn’t even feel a breeze on his skin.

  
He wanted to make noise.

  
Scream.

  
Shout.

  
Disrupt the eerie calm in any way he could.

  
But he was also afraid.

  
He didn’t even know what he was afraid of.

  
Nothing was hunting him.

  
There was no enemy to fight, no mission to complete.

  
There was _nothing_.

  
The suns were shining and the sky was a cloudless blue.

  
He brought his hands up to his hair and tugged, needed to feel something.

  
Fear was overtaking him, making it hard to think, hard to _exist_.

  
He reached into his mind.

  
Valkorion.

  
There was nothing.

  
Ven’fir usually preferred the Emperor to leave him alone, but right now he would even take his company over this.

  
He reached deeper.

  
_Valkorion_.

  
Silence.

  
There was no answer, not even a whisper of a presence.

  
Ven’fir had always been able to feel him.

  
_Always_.

  
Terrified, he reached out with the Force and found-

  
Nothing.

  
Something painful tore at him from the inside.

  
He reached out again, bringing his power forward to lift a perfectly stacked crate on the dock.

  
Except, nothing came at his call.

  
The Force was not answering.

  
He had always had a strong connection to the Force but he couldn’t sense anything.

  
It was like the Force had never existed.

  
Half mad, he turned and slammed his fist into the plasteel wall of the dock building.

  
It didn’t hurt.

  
The Force was _gone_.

  
He was utterly, completely alone.

  
He screamed, and no sound came out.

  
Nothing disrupted the perfect calm.

  
Try as he might, he couldn’t make a noise.

  
He kept on screaming, until he woke up.

  
“Ven! _Ven_ -”

  
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and a feeling of falling made his stomach lurch as he stared into the blackness of his bedroom.

  
Panic gripped his heart and his vision swam.

  
Something was touching him.

  
He was panting and terrified, body tense and straining. His skin was covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat and his heart thudded in his chest.

  
He looked over and saw Malavai hovering over him in the gloom, worried and sleep rumpled. His blue eyes were wide and concerned.

  
Without thinking, he fell against his lover, barely registering the noise of surprise.

  
He sucked in great heaving breaths, his shoulders shaking.

  
Malavai was _here_.

  
It was a dream.

  
He could hear the hum of the air circulator, the sound of footsteps and the occasional muffled voice from beyond the door.

  
Malavai held him, and ran his fingers through his hair.  
The terror was fading.

  
But it the memory of it made him shake.

  
“You were gone,” he whispered, overwhelmed. Something tipped indie him and he began to cry, sobs uneven and painful. “Everyone was _gone_.”

  
Malavai held him close, letting him have all the contact he needed.

  
He didn’t stop talking, a low murmur of words Ven’fir could barely make out. It helped.

  
He clung onto Malavai like he might disappear if he let him go.

  
“I’m here,” the human said lowly, swallowing hard. “I’m not going anywhere. It was just a nightmare.”

  
Ven’fir _needed_ him.

  
He let himself get it out as he cried, his tears causing a dark patch on the shoulder of Malavai's sleeping top.

  
“I was alone,” he whispered, holding tight. “I can't do that, not again.”

  
Malavai kissed his hair, running his fingers over his back.

  
The sensation chased away the lingering feeling of otherness that made him feel so wrong.

  
He didn’t know how long they sat there, tangled in each other.

  
“You’re not alone. You never have to be again.” Malavai murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven isn't afraid of much, but he is afraid of being alone.
> 
> Truly alone, that is.


	25. Where I'd go to hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vette doesn't often need comfort, except when she does.

If Vette had learned one thing in her time, it was that going it alone was overrated.

  
Sure, you had to learn to rely on yourself, but that was always a temporary thing. Or at least, you hoped it was.

  
Vette looked after Vette, but she sure as kriff preferred having someone else looking after Vette too.

  
Still, that wasn’t always possible.

  
She hadn’t been alone for long when she found herself stowing away on a inbound transport to Korriban.

  
She wasn’t sure what the cargo was, only that they were alien and didn’t talk much. Some of them kept their heads down, and some snarled at anyone who got close.

  
They looked like slaves, but there were no manacles on their wrists, only bruises and chafed skin.

  
She had more space than she had expected in the hold, and her rations staved off hunger as they travelled from the orbital station to the surface.

  
She reminded herself that this was only an hour or so. At least she could spy on the people in the other section, since the door didn’t close properly.

  
She had stowed away in worse places.

  
Still, being aboard a shuttle full of twitchy slaves was not a fun experience, especially when a girl with quick fingers tried to snatch the rations of a quiet young Zabrak who was taking too long to eat.

  
The Zabrak buried his fork in her eye, and Vette almost threw up from the sound.

  
She ended up pitched out of the airlock before they hit atmo.

  
These slaves were _not_ normal, but she didn’t want think about that now.

  
She had seen what desperation and torture did to people, but she wasn’t here for them.

  
She _wasn’t_.

  
Still, it was hard not to bolt after they disembarked, and she forced herself to wait until the last of them, a tall, whippet thin Miraluka who didn’t talk, finally left.

The pilot was running her last checks, and the guards were accompanying the slaves.

  
She darted out and swung herself behind the gang plank, waiting until she was sure no one was watching.

  
After that, it was a piece of rass-cake.

  
_Yeah_ , that was a pile of kriff.

  
Still, sitting in a cell in the bowels of the Academy, a single feeling of pride permeated the heavy sense of despair and fear.

  
She had, alone, been this close to breaking into a Sith tomb.

  
Pride was hard to hold onto when a familiar face came looking for Inquisitor Zyn, and she had a horrible realisation as to exactly what the slaves had been for.

  
The tall, quiet Miraluka with the ratty blindfold strode past like he knew exactly where he was going, his robes swishing at his heels. He didn’t walk like a slave.

  
_Robes_. He was an acolyte.

  
She shivered, realising what horrible danger she had been in while on the shuttle.

  
A cadre of slaves, freed with the intention of being trained as Sith.

  
No wonder they all seemed... off.

  
It was silent for a while, and she almost forgot about the alien acolyte.

  
Then the screams started, and she tried to cover her ears.

  
Even when the young alien had walked back out again, as calm as when he had entered, she swore she could still hear the ringing in her ears.

  
After four days in the cell, steadily going stir crazy and watching her fingers jitter from aftershocks, it was no wonder she didn’t immediately trust the green acolyte with the sharp grin.

  
Ven’fir Polaris was larger than life.

  
Everything was big, loud and brash.

  
She liked him, but she didn’t _trust_ him.

  
He laughed easily, a deep, honest thing that crinkled his eyes.

  
He wasn’t especially tall, but he was solid and tactile, and she had to get used to a whole new barrage of thoughtless touches.

  
He nudged her with an elbow, or patted her shoulder. He had even picked her up when she had twisted her ankle after falling down a hidden fracture in the red rock.

  
In his arms, she felt... _safe_. He held her tightly, expression smiling as he held her like she weighed nothing at all.

  
He was a flirt and she didn’t like that, until she realised that it was just another type of banter.  
She played up the annoyance and rolled her eyes at him, and he laughed and teased her again.

  
He killed like it was easy.

  
She had seen holos of Jedi fighting before, usually captured on a shaky, off centre cam with blurry details and crackling sound.

  
She had spied on a few Sith as they practiced out in the sands.

  
If she had thought that would prepare her to fight along side one, she was mistaken.

  
He was a hurricane condensed into a man, twin sabers blurring into trails of colour and violence.

  
He was quick and agile, and she knew circus performers who would be jealous of those acrobatics and core strength.

  
He took her breath away when he fought, eyes flowing amber as he massacred whoever was foolish enough to turn weapons on them.

  
There were a lot of mistakes in the beginning.

  
She shot him, once.

  
Accidental, of course. He had moved faster than she had expected, and her blaster spat out its payload a moment too late.

  
She had been terrified, after hearing his exclamation of surprise and pain.

  
He had whirled on her, teeth bared and eyes glowing in the gloom of the temple, features illuminated violet from his offhand saber. He was snarling like an animal, showing sharp teeth.

  
When he saw her terrified, guilty expression and how her hands shook on her blaster, the anger seemed to dim.

  
He lowered his sabers, and levelled her with an intense look.

  
“That wasn’t intentional, I assume.” He stated, tone dangerously calm. It wasn’t a question.

  
Vette, petrified, shook her head.

  
“S-sorry.” She whispered, the weight of her fear magnified by the atmosphere of the Dark Temple. “I wasn’t- I didn’t-"

  
He held up a hand for silence, and got it.

  
He gave her a long look, before deactivating his weapons.

  
He seemed to turn it off, the aggression and the power.

  
He calmly clipped his weapons back onto his belt, and gingerly moved the shoulder she had put a round into.

  
He winced, blowing out a breath through pursed lips. There was blood on his fingers and a smear of it on one bruised cheekbone.

  
“Come and help me with this, and I’ll forgive you.” He said with a sharp little grin, and Vette almost fell over herself to rush over.

  
She half thought she would end up with those blood slick fingers around her neck or through her chest, but none of that was forthcoming.

  
He dragged himself over and sat on a collapsed piece of column, gingerly touching the wound.

  
Her hands had shaken as she applied kolto and bandages.

  
Still, it was with fondness that she looked back on that now.

  
To think she had been so frightened of him, when they galaxy had so much worse to show her.

  
She was a deep sleeper, and had never been too troubled by nightmares.

  
That wasn’t to say they never came to visit, though.  
When she had woken in a cold sweat, fear making her tongue bitter and her muscles tense, she had gone to Risha.

  
She would climb into the other girls bed, and would fall asleep surrounded by warmth and company.

  
Later, she did the same to Taunt, but only once.

  
She though she had grown out of the embarrassing habit after a few years, but once might she woke with her sheets tangled around her and her heart thudding in her ears.

  
She didn’t want to be alone.

  
She could still feel phantom hands on her, grabbing and pulling and dragging.

  
Her mothers cries were shaking around her head, and she couldn’t even know if it was a memory or just a dream.

  
She needed to move, to get up and find someone.

  
She didn’t want to be _alone_.

  
Her breathing was ragged and uneven, and her head swam. She was crying, and her cheeks were wet.

  
Wobbling, she managed to get to the fresher, and splashed her face. She gulped down some water and felt better, but that of feeling of being outside of ones body stayed.

  
She shivered, unwilling to return to her bed, as though it was the source of her hurts.

  
As if going back there was going to reawaken the nightmares.

  
Her feet carried her through the ship, bare feet curling on the cold plasteel.

  
Her brain was fuzzy and thinking was like wading through tar.

  
She opened the door to Ven’fir’s quarters, intending on sneaking into his bed.

  
It would have been weird if it hadn’t happened before.

  
Actually, it was still kind of weird, but right now she needed comfort and Jaesa was off on her secondment with Darth Nox.

  
She blinked.

  
Oh.

  
There were already two people in the bed.

  
_Oh_.

  
Well, kriff.

  
They slept with their backs to each other, not cuddling or spooning but just... comfortable in each other’s space.

  
She could see Quinn's clothed shoulders over the sheets, one arm laying on top of them.

  
He always slept clothed.

  
Ven’fir only did when it was cold, which it always was on the ship.

  
He wore a faded t-shirt, stretchy and soft looking. The swell of his arms was obvious as he slept, the sheets pooled around his waist.

  
Her stomach dropped.

  
She wanted to climb in with him, to let him shield her from the nightmares with his presence.

  
He was her _best friend_.

  
Only he wasn’t just hers, was he?

  
Quinn laid claim to his time and his heart too.

  
Something ugly flickered in her belly.

  
Feeling terrible and sick, she turned to leave, heading for the open door that let the light spill into the dim room.

  
“V'tte?”

  
She winced as she heard the sleepy rasp from behind her.

  
Guilt flooded her from her stomach outwards.

  
“Go back to sleep.” She murmured, her tone a little more harsh than she intended.

  
She glanced back, and saw him propped up on his elbows, amber eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

Dark curls of hair stuck up in all directions, and she would have laughed at him had she not felt so untethered and awful.

  
He looked sleepy and a little confused, and no one who saw him like that would ever believe he was the Emperor’s Wrath, scourge of the Republic.

  
He rubbed at his eyes, and shook his head to be rid of sleepy cobwebs.

  
“You okay?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.

  
She felt her body flush cold, and she wanted to run to him. She was shaking like she was freezing cold.

  
“I...” she didn’t know what to say.

  
He looked at her for a moment, before lifting the covers a little.

  
Something broke inside her like a dam, and she all but ran to the bed, barely remembering to touch the panel and close the door.

  
She climbed under the covers and he dropped the sheets over her shoulders.

  
She curled close, feeling like she should be embarrassed but needing comfort too much to care.  
She felt tears on her cheeks again, and realised that she was crying.

  
She had felt hunted for every second since she woke up, and that feeling was only now fading.

  
He wrapped his arms around her and she could feel the washed-soft fabric of his t-shirt under her fingertips.

  
“I’m sorry.” She whispered, closing her eyes.

  
Pressed so close to his chest, she felt his answering grunt as well as heard it.

  
“Don’t be,” he rumbled, getting comfortable again.

  
“Quinn-"

  
“He won’t mind,” Ven’fir assured sleepily, and the arm flung over her shoulders was heavy and comforting.

  
Vette didn’t believe that for a second, but she finally felt safe so she didn’t care. She would never have thought she would share a bed with Quinn of all people, even if it was indirectly.

  
She felt sleep pulling at her again, and she didn’t fight it.

If someone had told the Vette from a few years ago that she would feel safest in the company of a Sith, she would have asked what spice they were on.

  
This was going to be awkward in the morning.

  
_Kriff it._

  
Her best friend would keep her safe.

  
That was worth anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vette and Ven are bffs, but I wouldn't blame people if they thought they had a thing.
> 
> They do not, but both are tactile, emotion driven people, who have a thing about being alone.
> 
> Thankfully, Quinn had a whole feeling when he woke up, and let them be.
> 
> In a truly unforeseen turn of events, he had a second feeling too and even left them some breakfast.


	26. That is not my real name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We would have your answer, Malavai Quinn.

Malavai Quinn was no stranger to the hard choices.

  
He felt very out of place in the taxi, watching the cityscape pass by through a veil of raindrops.

  
Everything was... odd.

  
His skin still hurt from the surgery. He was still getting used to being able to see with two eyes again, and everything seemed so loud now his hearing was fixed with a little silver implant in his ear.

  
Two weeks ago, he had been languishing in his cell in the supermax section of an Imperial prison, slowly going mad.

  
He hadn’t started off in supermax, but when unwanted attention resulted in bodies, he had been moved.

  
He shouldn’t have been proud of that, but a small kernel of smug satisfaction glowed in the pit of his stomach.

  
All he had wanted was to be left alone, and he had got his wish.

  
11328 had got himself a bit of a reputation, and it was only _somewhat_ exaggerated.

  
Useful, though.

  
He breathed in, and tasted the scent of leather and plastic from the taxi, and the undercurrent of ozone and petrichor that was intrinsically Dromund Kaas.

  
He had missed this planet something fierce.

  
The uniform he had been given was uncomfortable, despite it being tailored to fit him perfectly.

  
He was used to the jumpsuit that 11328 had spent the past four years of his life in.

  
A sense of dissociation permeated every movement, and he despised the feeling.

  
Malavai Quinn ordered his hands to move, but 11328 was the one clenching his fists as he watched from behind his eyes.

  
He shook his head, a shiver running down his spine. Getting lost inside his own head was dangerous, and he focused on his senses to ground himself.

  
In spite of everything, it felt good to be back.

  
He was _home_.

  
Home was different now, which was jarring, but that barely mattered.

  
Bitterness wasn’t enough to turn him from his Empire, even if its presence turned the feelings of relief sour.

  
Malavai was used to being used, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt.

  
Still, here he was.

  
Making the hard choice.

  
He felt the taxi begin the descent, and his stomach curled because of more than just the swoop.

  
The cool, mechanical tones of the onboard navigation system informed him that he had reached his destination. The taxi touched down with a small bump, and spun down its engines. The door light flashed amber for a moment before turning green, and he heard the sounds of the locks disengaging.

  
He stepped out into the drizzle, his long coat slung over his shoulders.

He relished the rain on his skin.

  
Disconnected, he moved towards the citadel, people moving unconsciously from his path.

  
He wondered what they saw when they looked at him?

  
A grim faced soldier, scars on his face and dark circles under cold eyes.

  
The Sith Citadel hadn’t changed much.

  
Still foreboding and dark, power etched into the very walls and floors.

  
He didn’t linger.

  
He knew exactly where he needed to go.

  
Sith went about their business around him, one or two sparing a glance for the lone Imperial walking among then with nary a bowed head.

  
Other Imperials were present, usually keeping to themselves as they hurried along.

  
Quinn didn’t worry about being stopped, although he probably should have.

  
His mind was focused on the task at hand, and it helped to have something to keep his attention on.

  
It made him less likely to drift off into thought.

  
He could have climbed the stairs but there was a lift free, and any time alone was preferable to remaining with people.

  
The upper levels were quieter, only guards silently watching as company.

  
Quinn didn’t mind.

  
The office he arrived at was oddly nondescript, for that of a Sith.

  
No personality, and the Sith were all about personality.

  
He didn’t knock, because the door opened before he had the chance.

  
He entered, and cast his eye discreetly around the office.

  
Small, no windows, three opportunities for cover, two doors, one exit-

  
He turned his eyes on the figure behind the desk, and dropped smoothly to one knee as he approached.

  
“My lord,” he murmured, and he wondered how different the same words could feel depending on who you said them to.

  
The Sith stood, and moved around the desk to stand in front of him.

  
Swathed in robes and a mask, Quinn couldn’t even tell of they were male or female. They carried an aura of foreboding with them, like a tangible thing. The air seemed colder snd heavier the close they got.

  
A gloved hand reached out, and gently tilted his head up.

  
His stomach rolled, but he let himself be moved.

  
The mask was a faceless thing, a single crimson stripe of light running down one side and down the neck to beneath the robes, but otherwise completely featureless.

  
“Malavai Quinn,” the Sith greeted, voice modulated and unnerving.

  
“Darth Videre.” He murmured, respectful.

  
The hand left him, and he felt relieved. His skin crawled.

  
The Sith regarded him, and the only thing to focus on was that single glowing strip running down the left side of their mask. He bowed his head again.

It felt odd to be where he was. Maybe it was inevitable, ending up here. After all, he was a _failed_ project, and it was a cruel joke for him to end up back at the place he hadn't been good enough for.

He had lost before he even knew he was playing.

  
“You are an interesting man, Malavai Quinn.” They said simply.

  
Quinn wasn’t sure it was a good thing to be considered ‘interesting'.

“You served the Wrath, did you not?” They knew that already, but he had to play along.

  
“Yes, my lord.” He replied, head bowed.

  
The Sith tilted their head, looking rather like a broken doll.

  
“You married him.”

  
A lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. 

  
“Yes, my lord.”

  
“You searched for him.”

  
Emotion bubbled in his stomach, hot and violent. He pushed it back.

  
“Yes, my lord.”

  
“Captured by the Republic after an ambush, and held for... nine months.” The Sith's tone was politely interested. “They didn’t break you.”

  
A rush of savage pride.

  
“No, my lord. They did not.”

  
“But you broke them, didn’t you?”

  
Blood and screams. A knife that had been left too close as the Empire seiged the bunker. The smell of meat and copper as he carved-

  
He moistened dry lips, and kept his head bowed.

  
“Yes, my lord.”

  
The Sith was quiet for a moment.

  
“You know why you are here.”

  
Not sure if he was to respond to that, Quinn stayed silent. The Sith continued.

  
“The Empire will not sit idly under the thumb of Zakuul.” The Darth said flatly, modulated voice unnerving to the ear. “Opposition cannot be blatant. But the Sith as used to the shadows, are we not?”

  
“Yes, my lord.”

  
Darth Videre carried on as if they had never heard him.

  
“We have a... proposal for you, Malavai Quinn.”

  
The ‘we’ was interesting, but Malavai couldn’t spare enough attention for that line of thought right now.

  
“You will strike at Zakuul where we cannot. You will be our eyes, our ears, our blade in the dark. In return, we will supply you with intelligence, equipment, and a team. You will be permitted to search for the Wrath.”

  
Malavai almost looked up, his heart in his throat.

  
“But make no mistake, Malavai Quinn. You will be _ours_. You will be the cornerstone of a renewed sphere, one that will remake this galaxy."

  
There was a pause long enough to become uncomfortable.

  
“We would have your answer, Malavai Quinn.”

  
Malavai Quinn was used to the hard choices.  
This wasn’t one of them.

  
“ _Yes_.”

  
The hand returned to his face, and guided his eyes upwards. He looked upon the matte mask of his patron and jailer, and felt his mind grow cold.

  
Zakuul would know pain, and Malavai would be the one to being it to them. They had taken _everything_ from him.

  
It seemed only fair that he would take everything from them, too.

  
Darth Videre seemed approving, the grip on Malavai's face tightening.

  
“You are no longer Malavai Quinn.” They intoned, “That name is no longer anything but a mask.”

  
The Sith let go, and stepped back. Malavai’s mind burned.

  
“Rise.”

  
Malavai got to his feet, feeling cold, sparkling satisfaction in his chest. The order was a welcome one. He felt less distant already. He had a _purpose_.

He would find Ven'fir.

  
He had made a deal with a devil, but he had made his choice. Grim determination let him stare the mask in the face, unafraid.

  
Darth Videre stood in front of him, imposing.

  
Malavai’s expression was grim and held promise.

  
He felt alive for the first time in years, and the price had only been his soul.

  
Malavai could have sworn he heard a smile in the tone of that modulated voice when the Sith spoke, and it was hard not to match it.

  
“Sith Intelligence welcomes you, Cipher Eight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went there.


	27. Her side of the story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senya hadn't been sure about the Outlander, until she was.

Senya could pinpoint the exact moment she realised that she would follow the Outlander into the Void and back, if he asked.

  
Probably even if he didn’t.

  
She had heard about him from Lana, who was not prone to exaggeration or misinformation.

  
She knew about Sith, of course, but Lana was the only one she knew personally. They were a rather confusing lot, truth be told, but no more so than the Jedi.

  
The man Lana described was apparently a wholly unique kind of Sith, which only made things more confusing. Not that it mattered.

Senya didn’t need him for his _philosophy_.

  
Lana had told her of his exploits, but without the context of their society, it rang a little hollow.  
Emperor's Wrath.

  
Chosen by the Emperor as his enforcer, his extant will in an Empire he had left behind.

  
Lana spoke of him fondly, which was another surprise. Lana Beniko was a tough woman to please, but this man seemed to have done just that.

  
Her heart had been in her mouth as she pushed her bike harder through the swamp, her mind consumed with only the need to go faster, to reach Lana in time.

  
Nothing could have made her miss the presence that flared as she drew closer.

  
It was massive and burning, like looking at the centre of one of the sun reactors.

  
Once, back when she had the time, she had liked to watch them for what seemed like hours, appreciating the unfathomable power that Zakuul had contained. The feeling of breathless wonder had been the same as when she had stared into the churning plasma, but instead she was feeling a person.

  
It was like standing in a firestorm.

  
When she finally got a look at him, she couldn’t help but stare.

  
Aliens were one of the odder things that had entered Zakuul with the war, and they were still subject to great interest.

  
He was _green_.

  
He was dressed in armour, matte black and practical save for the long tasset that curled around his legs. It was ragged and the plating of his armour was charred and buckled in places, almost ruined. Twin lightsabers hummed in his hands, one the same bright crimson as the one currently gutting a Skytrooper in Lana's capable hands, and one a deep purple. They threw his expression into sharp relief, making a scar on his face stand out.

  
His expression was curled into a snarl, like some wild animal. He was baring his teeth in a display of viciousness that awoke uncomfortable memories of a little girl turned into a monster.

  
He had very sharp teeth.

  
His eyes glowed like molten gold, made brighter by the light of his weapons in the gloom.

  
There was no time for ruminating when she was flinging herself off her bike and feeling the heat from the explosion, but at least dispatching the remaining stragglers was easy.

  
Lana felt tired in the Force, and she wondered how many they had cut through before she arrived.  
Judging by the pieces, it was a lot.

  
“Lana,” she greeted coolly. Lana was her ally, but Senya had learned that not even allies stayed that way for long. She ignored Lana's mutter about her lateness, knowing it was as close to banter as she would get right now.

  
She watched the green man, Ven'fir she remembered Lana telling her his name was, fix that intense gaze on her, and sent him one right back.

  
He was younger than she had expected, from Lana's descriptions of his legend, mid-thirties or so if she wasn’t mistaken. She wondered how he had had the time.

  
He looked exhausted and ill, skin sallow and sheened with perspiration, his eyes dark in their sockets and stance wracked with pain. Small injuries nicked his skin, and curls of dark hair were half matted with blood. One arm shook and jerked occasionally, something about the movement just off enough to be obviously not organic.

  
The opposite side to her son. She wondered what had caused it.

  
Still, his eyes were steady.

  
Impressive.

  
“You got one of the Knights to switch sides,” he murmured to Lana, although he didn’t take his eyes off Senya.

  
“Not all of us blindly follow Arcann.” She said grimly, ignoring how much that hurt. She wanted to be able to follow her son. There had been a time when she would have done so without a second thought.

  
The air seemed to shiver as two more drop ships appeared over the tops of the trees. Their searchlights were all but blinding after the gloom, and she felt a muted stab of worry.

  
That was a lot.

  
This must have been what it was like for the people she hunted.

  
That didn’t matter.

  
Skytroopers fell smoothly from the sky, their jetpacks belching flame as they made contact with the soft ground.

  
Her stomach dropped as golden figures stepped from the drop ships, their polesabers casting a eerie blue glow over the foliage.

  
“More resistance,” Lana growled, “Knights.”  
She felt Lana's attention on her back, and set her resolve.

  
“I do hope you’re up to fighting your own, Senya.” Lana said simply, without question or challenge.  
She liked that.

  
She shook her head.

  
“My issue isn’t with them, but if they’re going to stand in my way...” she trailed off, raising her weapon and pointing at the oncoming force. She wanted them to know it was her.

  
She was fighting for what needed to be done, nothing more or less. Anyone could see it, but so few took action.

  
The Knights should have rebelled. Should have kept their honour in the wake of a child using them like toys.

  
But they didn’t.

  
She wanted them to see her and know, deep down, that they could have done the same.

  
A dry, slightly pained chuckle came from behind her, and she felt her brow creased.

  
“I see you’ve found another pragmatist, Lana.” The Wrath said to his friend, a smile in his tone despite how he readied his weapons.

  
Senya did not appreciate the joke. There was a time and place. This was not it.

  
“Stow the chatter,” she snapped, eyes on the enemy that was close enough to fell through the Force. “Prove you can fight.”

  
There was a laugh, but it didn’t seem humourous.  
The hum of twin lightsabers joined hers as he raised them, and the Force swirled in Eddie’s around him. It grated against her senses.

  
“Oh, I’ve been needing a little something to take the edge off.” He grinned, a split lip and bruising on his skin lending his expression a mean look.

  
Senya didn’t bother to respond.

  
Action was worth more than words.

* * *

It was on the long hours in the Gravestone that she actually got to know him a little better.

  
There was something awfully sad about him, something so tired and worn that it pulled at her senses in an uncomfortable way.

  
So, Senya felt the desire to seek him out one day when there was nothing to do but think.

  
He was, she grudgingly admitted, interesting.  
He was just as bold as Lana had described, and with an irritating habit of making light of anything.

  
There was also a kind of viciousness to him that surprised her. There was something mean and animal there that left bodies in pieces, and Skytroopers torn limb from limb. He liked to smile like he was harmless, as if five ten of monstrous power, muscle and repressed anger could be anything but intimidating.

  
She had noted that his moral compass, skewed as it was, was very situational. He made snap decisions, and was often swayed by a feeling or some pull of the Force she couldn’t sense.

  
It was maddening.

  
Still, he was clearly used to leading, as he took that role with subconscious ease, like he already knew how.

  
Lana had mentioned off hand that Sith were often leaders in war, and that the Wrath had indeed been one of them.

  
Whole planets had been annexed by the man currently nursing a cup of tea in the deserted lounge, if one could call the place that. It was dirty and mostly bare, the only virtue being the large windows.  
She shook her head, and purposefully made a noise as she entered. Such inattentiveness wasn’t impressive.

  
He didn’t jump when she entered, merely looked up with a neutral expression.

  
Maybe he hadn’t been so inattentive after all.  
“Senya,” he greeted, voice low. “Something I can help you with?”

  
She didn’t answer immediately, just crossed to where he sat on one of the least broken chairs.

  
“Nothing urgent,” she murmured, settling on the second most broken chair. “How is the arm?”

  
He glanced down at his cybernetic arm, exposed now he was out of his armour.

  
It was a sleek looking thing, all black nano-carbon and matte finish.

  
It was designed to be very close to his flesh arm, and she marvelled at the artistry behind it.

  
It had seen better days however. The finish was scratched and scuffed, and the plating on his forearm had been buckled and fixed, leaving an ugly section. Some connectors had been repaired crudely, and it showed.

  
He flexed his fingers.

  
“I’m no engineer, but I can at least patch up my arm.” He murmured, “I’ll need a replacement, though.”

  
He brought up his flesh hand to compare to his prosthetic one, and Senya noticed something catching the light.

  
Zakuul did not use rings to symbolise marriage, but she had been around the Core Worlds enough to be aware of the tradition.

  
“Is that a wedding ring?” she asked, something twisting uncomfortably in her gut when he hid his hand, glancing up with something she couldn’t describe in his eyes.

  
“Yeah.”

  
The short answer was unlike him, for all the short time she had known him.

  
“How long have you been married?” she asked, curious.

  
She wouldn’t call him aloof, but there was something... distant about him. He was friendly and talkative and he seemed cheerful enough, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was skewed somehow. Different.

  
Out of place.

  
He looked up again, and the colour of his irises was bright. Bright amber gold, fading into burned orange, the colour of molten glass.

  
“Not counting my little carbonite nap? Three weeks.”

  
Oh.

  
She didn’t know what to say to that.

  
He sounded so bitter.

  
Of course he did, she thought to herself, he's been stolen from everything and everyone he ever knew.  
She felt guilty.

  
Logically, she knew she had nothing personally to do with what had happened to him.

  
But... there was that feeling of shame. Zakuul had done this.

  
Arcann had been the one that had made the galaxy the place it was today, and that thought hurt more than any other.

  
Part of the blame lay on her shoulders.

  
“I’m sorry.” She managed, and he shot her a crooked grin, all sharp teeth and barely leashed anger.

  
“Are you?”

  
She didn’t know how to respond to that.

  
“What was their name?”

  
He seemed surprised at her question, like he didn’t think she would care.

  
Senya generally cared a lot more than people thought she did.

  
“Malavai.” He murmured, and his breath hitched. “I... I haven’t- His name is Malavai.” He said again, ignoring the sudden break in his sentence.

  
He looked hunched over and defensive, but Senya was good at reading people.

  
“Will you tell me about him?”

  
Golden eyes were wide as he looked up, and she studied the geometric tattoos on his face. She wondered if they meant anything.

  
“Why?”

  
She offered him a small smile, and part of her was amused to see his surprise.

  
“I would like to hear about him.” She said honestly, and he relaxed. Could he sense the truth in her words?

  
Lana had mentioned his talent with Force signatures in passing, but she hadn’t thought someone so unsubtle would nurture such a skill.

  
He surprised her often.

  
“I... He's...” he took a breath, and closed his eyes. There was a pause. “I miss him.”

  
Senya knew what that was like.

  
He glanced over to her again, and he seemed so desperately sad.

  
There was a lump in her throat.

  
“It’s been five years.” He breathed, voice hoarse and throaty, “What if he thought I was dead? What if... what if he thought I left him behind?”

  
He took a shuddering breath. “I don’t even know if he’s alive. My crew... I don’t know what happened to any of them. I just want things to go back to how they were.”

  
The bitterness was there again, and Senya knew that that felt like too.

  
“Don’t we all,” she said wryly, and offered a small smile when he tilted his head. “We all have things we regret. That we wish had never happened. We can’t change them, but we can make the most of them.”

  
He gave her a small smile, and she was struck by how honest it was compared to his big, brash smiles he usually gave everyone.

  
“I intend to. He would kill me if he knew I was moping when there was work to be done.” He said with a wistful smile. He took a sip of his tea and Senya wondered when he had acquired it.

  
He shot her a grin. “Got Lana to pick up a box for me on our last supply stop.” He answered her unmasked question.

  
How was he doing that.

  
“It’s Fyi'am.” He said, and Senya created her brow at the unfamiliar word. He chuckled. “It's from my homeworld, Dromund Kaas. Of course, it’s quite common now and it’s not only grown there anymore, but I still think it tastes like home.”

  
He breathed in the steam and smiled.

  
“Would you like to try some?”

  
He probably only had a limited supply. He was offering some to her anyway.

  
“Yes, please.” She murmured. “I would like that.”

* * *

Odessen was... something.

  
It felt like safety, although she knew nowhere was completely safe.

  
People seemed more relaxed here, and she appreciated that.

  
It was easy to hide in, too.

  
Ven’fir, as she had taken to calling him, always seemed to be able to find her when he wanted to.  
It made the moments when he didn’t all the more telling.

  
He seemed to know when she wanted to be truly left alone, and when she wanted some company.

  
It felt odd, calling him by his first name now.

Imperials had funny norms regarding names, and she had had to have Lana explain it for her to understand.

  
First names were only for close friends and only used with permission.

  
Of course, this was becoming less strict now the Empire was becoming more diverse, but the tradition was there. Family names and titles were the preferred form of address for everyone save close family and friends.

  
She had apologised awkwardly for using Lana's first name, but the blonde Sith had just shaken her head and smiled. She didn’t mind, she had said. Senya hadn’t known, after all. Lana didn’t much stand on ceremony.

  
She had asked the Outlander why he used her first name, and he had looked sheepish.

  
“You introduced yourself as ‘Senya’. I assumed that’s what you wanted me to call you, even if it felt weird.”

  
He had given her a crooked grin that reminded her of a playful cat. “You can call me Ven’fir, if you want.”

  
Knowing what she did of their culture, she was floored.

  
It was fascinating.

  
So now she called him by his first name and felt special every time she did.

  
He came to share tea with her.

  
Senya hadn’t been much of a tea drinker before, but Ven’fir seemed to enjoy finding new blends to show her, and she found she liked more than she thought she would.

  
They often sat, mugs in their hands, in the chilly morning sunlight outside the base. Ven’fir, used to warm and muggy Dromund Kaas, shivered a lot.

  
She held something folded under her arm as she walked through the base, quiet at this time of the morning.

  
Their usual spot was removed from the hustle and bustle, which she appreciated.

  
Climbing the ladder to the roof, she breathed in the cold morning air.

  
The view was stunning. Watery sunlight lit the valley, and a thin wreath of mist hung in the air.

  
Ven’fir was already there, sitting on one of the two chairs that they had left up here. A rickety table was between them, and already had a teapot under a cosy on it, and two mugs.

  
He was looking out over the valley, lost in thought.  
He looked sad.

  
“I brought you something.” She said as she got close, and he turned to face her, smile brightening his features.

  
“Oh?” he asked, getting up to greet her. He seemed tired, and his presence in the Force was muted, withdrawn.

  
Senya would be having none of that.

  
She pressed the bundle into his hands, feeling a little awkward.

  
It had been a long time since she had had the time or the inclination to make anything.

  
Or, in fact, anyone to make something _for_.

  
Curious, he shook it out, the slightly lumpy knitted jumper falling free from the folds.

  
“Did you make this?” he asked, a smile spreading over his face.

  
She glanced away, embarrassed.

  
“I know it’s hardly-“ she began, tone rough.

  
Beaming, he had already pulled it over his head.

  
It was a little big in some places and too long on the body, but he was smiling like she had never seen him do so before. His hair was sticking up in all directions now, curls standing every which way.

  
Before she could say another word, he had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a hug.  
She froze, body tense and on alert before she forced herself to relax.

  
He was _hugging_ her.

  
She hadn’t been this close to another person since... she didn’t know.

  
A long time.

  
A well of emotion made her limbs weak and her heart swell, and she fought not to lose her breath. She closed her eyes, and held on.

  
She probably would have struggled out of it at one point but...

  
She told herself that this was for Ven’fir. He needed this; she was only humouring him.

  
Yes, she was only doing her part to keep the Outlander happy.

  
She felt like he was holding her just as much as she was holding him.

* * *

The hugs had become surprisingly common. Ven’fir seemed to find the slightest excuse to hug her, although never in public.

  
She appreciated that.

  
She had heard him defending her to Koth before, and was very grateful Theron had stepped in before things got ugly.

  
Ven’fir was kind enough, but he was still Sith.  
Sith didn’t usually hold their tempers well, and she felt that sometimes Koth was closer to having the Force crushing his windpipe than he knew.

  
So, when she heard of a disturbance that had occurred that morning, she had immediately assumed it to be something bad. After all, how many surprises ended up good these days?

  
When she heard a knock on her door that evening and felt his presence on the other side, she assumed he was there for company and a cup of Baron Ghul.

  
Instead, she opened the door to the Ven’fir, his expression lighter than she had ever seen, a beaming, boyish smile on his face and practically vibrating with excitement.

  
He stood close to the man by his side, his posture stiff and poised even as he leaned into the Sith’s space.

  
He looked somewhat uncomfortable, but had the same sunlight happiness settled over him that Ven’fir did.

  
He was pale and aristocratic, sharp cheekbones and salt and pepper hair styled with precision. Dark, storm blue eyes were tired and had dark circles under them, but held sparkle that didn’t fit with his tired appearance. Subtle cybernetics threaded over his skin, and his Imperial officers uniform fit him well. Well kept stubble clung to his jaw, and he smiled tightly.

  
One hand was half hidden, linked with Ven'fir's, their fingers tangled together like they couldn’t bare not to be touching.

  
Senya felt herself melt.

  
Ven’fir's presence in the Force was like sunshine.

  
“Senya? I would like for you to meet someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I didn't post yesterday, but this is extra long so... trade off?
> 
> Also, Senya is surprisingly hard to write...


	28. No one believed us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one says that they ‘faced' a Sith, people usually imagine something a little different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the class story, but before Shadow of Revan.

Padawan Feliyat was the kind of Jedi who had found her calling in the martial disciplines.

She found it desperately dull to sit for hours in silent meditation, communing deeply with the Force. She had torn through her combat lessons and was strong enough in the Force to easily place in the top half of her class. Her lightsaber skills were more than enough to make up for slightly shaky discipline, but hey, rules were made to be broken.

  
She was driven and skilled, so it was no wonder she was on her trial to become a full Jedi Knight.

  
Her teacher, Master Vol, had explained the objective. She and two others would be dropped in the jungles of Granadeii, and they would be required to pass certain tests, acting as a team. Feliyat personally thought the whole ‘teamwork' thing was bantha poodoo, but Master Vol had been insistent.

  
Vol was well loved by the learners in the Jedi temple, both for his kind, patient nature, the sweets he gave out after pop quizzes, and his penchant for interesting trials. He was the Barsen'thor, and that made him one of the most awesome people in the temple, according to the padawans. Master V'lante, the Battlemaster, was also awesome but he was equally going-to-need-new-pants terrifying, which Feliyat would never admit to agreeing with.

  
He had the _best_ swears though.

  
Everyone wanted to go on a trial with Master Vol if they could manage it, and it was a point to brag about to the younger years who had not yet had the opportunity. Vol had meticulously planned this trip, just like he meticulously planned all the others, she had heard.

  
Granadeii was a tropical world, settled with seaside towns and the occasional city. Its primary source of income was tourism and gemstones from the planet’s mines, and the planetary government had been quick to declare neutrality in the war, despite Granadeii having little to no tactical or material significance to either side.

  
Master Vol was a firm believer in practical experience and had set up their first task at an archaeological dig close to one of the main resorts. Granadeii had a thousand and one museums, digs and sites to visit, relics of the former ages abundant. There was nothing Force related, just trinkets of a long past era of the native people, and some crumbling ruins in the jungle.

  
Which was why Feliyat was very surprised to feel a ripple in the Force.

  
She paused, honing her senses and searching.

Perhaps it was one of her team?

  
No.

  
It was further away, and too potent to be a padawan.

  
It felt... _dark_.

  
It burned.

  
One of her team gingerly patted her shoulder.

“Feliyat?”

  
She calmed her thudding heart.

  
Peace.

  
Just because there was a karking _Dark Side Force signature_ on the planet was no reason to lose your head.

  
Her head-tails curled at the thought.

  
She weighed her options. She could just leave and take her team with her. She could inform Master Vol and he would do what he thought best. Granadeii was a neutral world, and nothing said a Sith couldn’t be there. There was nothing she knew of that would interest one, of course, just like there was nothing to really interest the Jedi.

  
Or, she thought with a shiver, she could investigate.  
It was her duty to do so. Also, the disturbance was between her and the town, where the ship was docked at the spaceport. Blast.

  
“Uh, Feliyat?”

  
She blinked and turned. There was nervousness in the air.

  
“What?” she snapped, on edge.

  
The padawan, a young Cathar named Jethann, shifted. “Ogura says she can feel something in the Force,” he murmured. “I can feel it too.”

  
Their combat skills were best described as ‘woeful', but they weren’t totally useless. She shouldn’t have been surprised they too sensed the presence.

  
“I feel it too,” she muttered, peering through the undergrowth. “It feels... dark.”

  
Muttering met her ears, and she held up a hand for quiet.

  
“This was not expected, but a Jedi must always remain adaptable.” She recited, folding her arms. “And what if this is part of our trial? I’m not failing because I got scared.”

  
She tossed her head, cowing her teammates with a look. Akk puppy eyes had never worked on her, not even from Jethann.

  
“This is a neutral world anyway,” She nodded, trying to sound like she wasn’t convincing herself, too. “Not with us, but certainly not against us.”

  
Dubious shuffling.

  
“We are Jedi,” Feliyat snapped, “And we do not shirk our responsibilities. Am I understood?”

  
She gave them the Eye, and they quickly murmured their agreement.

  
“Now,” she said primly, determined not to show anything other than confidence. “Keep your eyes open and follow me.”

  
With a fearlessness she definitely didn’t feel inside, Feliyat headed towards the beach, and towards the source of the presence.

  
They had never faced the Dark Side before.

  
If Feliyat was being completely honest, neither had she.

  
She wouldn’t tell them that, though.

  
She knew she was no pushover, but even she wasn’t so overconfident to believe there was nothing more powerful than she was.

  
The thought of one of those monsters made her feel cold, despite the warm weather. The stories of Sith would make anyone stay awake at night. Twisted and corrupted, they fed on dread and delighted in cruelty. Untrustworthy and monstrous, Sith represented sentience at its worst.

  
They revelled in the Dark Side and their appearance showed their corruption. Eyes and skin turning unnatural shades as every sin brought them further from the Light.

  
Grim thoughts for a paradise.

  
The white sand beaches were a pull for those looking for rest and relaxation, but Feliyat wasn’t feeling very relaxed. The area they were in wasn’t busy at all, which wasn’t surprising considering how far from the resort it was. She could see the gleaming building in the distance, and it was far enough away and at the tail end of the season to be almost deserted.

  
She could see a parasol stuck in the sand, lopsided and facing her. She couldn’t make out anything else.  
The feeling was close, and she tried to avoid peering to closely at it. It was like looking into a star, unfathomable, untameable power on an unimaginable scale.

  
She felt tiny.

  
Her team clearly felt it too, although to a lesser degree. They were firm though, and she was actually kinda proud.

  
They were almost Knights, she reminded herself, they were not helpless.

  
Not even facing a source of Dark Side power.

  
She signalled for them to stay close as she approached the parasol. As she did so, she heard the hum of voices.

  
“Look Malavai, I can’t see why you can’t just enjoy the sun-”

  
The voice was deep and exasperated, an Imperial accent jarring to her ears. She had never heard one outside of a recording before. Their words sounded funny.

  
“Because if I do, I’ll burn.” Came a snippy reply, this voice also sporting a Kaasian accent, in a higher pitch than the first. “And then I’ll be walking around as red as a pureblood.”

  
They didn’t seem to be discussing anything particularly nefarious, even if they were Imperial.  
She steered her nerves and stepped around the droopy looking parasol.

  
She stared.

  
Two sets of eyes stared back.

  
The source of all the burning, frothing power was wearing swimming shorts, had something luridly bright in a glass in his hand, and sported sunglasses perched on his nose. His skin was covered in beads of water from the sea, and a mop of dark hair was damp and curling in the sun. He had a mild look of surprise on his face, and there was a small smear of sand on his cheek. She could make out tattoos on his face, and more on his body, the lines elegant and bold. Scars bisected them, some old and some newer. One arm caught her eye, sleek cybernetics gleaming gunmetal in the sunlight.

  
He was _green_ and he was wearing _flip-flops_.

  
Feliyat couldn’t manage more than an inelegant noise of surprise.

  
The other man was in the shadow of the parasol, holo-novel in hand. He was pale and dark haired, and far more covered than his companion.

  
To be fair, it would be difficult to be less covered than the Sith. She tried not to look.

  
“Jedi,” the pale man greeted, tone colder than Hoth. Blue eyes were unnervingly intense.

  
The Sith raised his juice in a toast, a crooked grin on his face. “Good afternoon Jedi,” he greeted cheerily. “Cracking day, isn’t it?”

  
“I... I uh...”

  
How did she explain that she had felt a presence and wanted to check if anything morally dubious was going on?

  
They were Imperial. It would be more of a surprise if they _weren’t_ up to something ethically reprehensible.

  
He didn’t look very corrupted. The other one was pale, but he didn’t give off any indication he was Force sensitive.

  
Just a really pasty human, then.

  
The Sith sat up from where he had been reclining on a sun lounger and opened his mouth to speak.

  
“Let Feliyat go!”

  
She wanted to curse. Jedi shouldn’t curse, she recited. No anger. Just calm.

  
Nope, cursing was happening. She had learned most of her repertoire off Master V’lante, who was honestly hilarious when his ire wasn’t directed at you.

  
Her team waded in, lightsabers drawn and looking terrified.

  
The pale man scowled, gripping something she had the horrible feeling was a knife under his beach towel.

  
The Sith raised his eyebrows.

  
Her team seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at the mostly naked Sith.

  
The Sith took a sip of his drink through a bendy straw.

  
There was fruit on the rim of the glass, and a colourful little umbrella poking out of the top. The ice clinked against the side.

  
“ _Little_ Jedi,” he greeted with a grin much closer to a smirk than she was comfortable with. “How cute.”

  
“I... I would have you explain your presence on this world, Sith.” She managed. She wasn’t a padawan right now, she was a Jedi facing a Sith.

  
A champion of Light against a force of Darkness.

  
A protector of all that was good in the galaxy against a relentless force of corruption.

  
A vanguard of morality that-

  
“We’re on holiday.” He said reasonably, adjusting his sunglasses. Dark curls dripped water onto broad shoulders.

  
She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  
“I said that we’re on holiday, right now.” He repeated politely. “The rest of my crew are at the resort I think, tearing up the bar no doubt. Did you know they have a casino?” he hummed. “I expect to see empty pockets when we get back.”

  
“But you’re Sith!” Jethann, her Cathar teammate, blurted out. He cringed when the sunglasses attention settled on him. Feliyat couldn’t blame him; it was like standing in front of a playful Nexu.

  
“Well, yes.” The Mirialan nodded, bemused. “Sith can take holidays too, you know.”

  
The padawan opened his mouth, aborted mission on his sentence, and closed it again.

  
“Granted, it’s rather a special occasion,” the Sith continued blithely. “Usually it’s a few days shore leave, not five-star resorts.” He shrugged. “But like I said, one off.”

  
The pale man at his side levelled them with a look cold enough to make them shiver despite the scorching heat. “And what, may I ask, are you doing here?” he asked, suspicious. “A group of Jedi that just happen to stumble on us? Hardly a coincidence.”

  
Feliyat frowned. “I assure you, our purpose here is completely benign. We are studying the ruins near here.” She defended. “I sensed your presence.”

  
The Sith raised his eyebrows again. “Did you really?” he marvelled. “I didn’t sense you at all.”

  
Ouch, unintentional burn.

  
_You were too pathetic to notice until you were standing in front of me._

  
Ignoring the put down, she forged on.

  
“Who are you?” she asked, trying to sound confident. She would rather be cleaning the training rooms than this.

  
The Sith grinned and inclined his head. “Darth Venator, Emperor’s Wrath. Charmed.”

  
A Darth? Out here?

  
There were capital letters in that title. She could hear them.

  
Feliyat felt a little faint.

  
“And this is Captain Quinn, Imperial military.”

Venator continued.

  
The pale man, Quinn, threw a scowl at the Sith. The effect was not lessened by the white shirt that was too big for him, the scattering of freckles over his nose, or his bare feet. “My lord, I don’t think we should be entertaining them."

  
Venator shrugged.

  
There was a pause.

  
“So, can I help you with anything?” Venator asked, tilting his head. “Only I was going to go for a swim in a minute. Quinn refuses to let his delicate Imperial skin see the sun.” He teased the human, who flushed pink from more than the heat.

  
“ _My_ _lord_.”

  
Ignoring his companion's tone, the Sith looked at them expectantly, and Feliyat had never been so confused in her life.

  
“Um, okay?” she managed, “I guess we’ll just… go, then.”

  
Venator gave them a smirk and raised his glass to them, and Feliyat forced herself to back away and set off in the direction of the town. Numb, she dimly realised that her team were following her, just as confused as she was.

  
“Feliyat?” Ogura asked, the human having the slightest crease between her eyebrows as the only sign of bafflement. “What just happened?”

  
She blinked at them, pausing to stand still. Her boots dug into the sand. “I have no idea.” She admitted. “But... But I just can’t believe a Sith is here on vacation, of all things.”

  
Jethann tilted his head. “He looked like he was on vacation.” He murmured.

  
Ogura turned judgemental, flat eyes on him. “I’m surprised you noticed anything else, considering how he was almost naked. I saw you staring.”

  
Jethann’s fur bristled in the Cathar equivalent of a blush. His eyes were wide. “Ogura!” he hissed, mortified. “I thought Sith were supposed to be ugly.” He whispered as he shrank in on himself, embarrassed. Considering his size could best be described as ‘hulking', it only looked comical.

  
Feliyat crossed her arms. “Frankly, I’m wondering if he was even really a Sith.” She muttered. “Except his presence in the Force couldn’t be anything else. That power...” she shivered. “He wasn’t masking it at all.”

  
Ogura nodded. Her face, as usual, was blank. “The human was more what I would expect. He felt _prickly_.”

  
Feliyat snorted. “He was Imperial, what do you expect?”

  
Ogura tilted her head. “I thought Sith had to be human, or Pureblood.”

  
“That’s not important right now.” Feliyat dismissed. “They’re obviously hiding something. That Sith said they were staying at the resort. We should investigate.”

  
Jethann looked uncomfortable. The Cathar, despite his size, was quiet and meek, and preferred his books to a lightsaber. “Feliyat, that isn’t part of our trial.” He reminded. “We should leave this alone.”

  
She couldn’t believe her ears. “Leave it alone?” she repeated, and her tone caused the Cathar to flinch and his fur to fluff up. “There’s Sith, our ancient enemy may I remind you, on this planet doing who knows what and you want us to leave it alone?”

  
Ogura looked undecided. “We can’t ignore it.” She decided, tone monotonous. “But it is not our responsibility to handle it alone. We should report this to Master Vol over the holo and let him handle the situation. He can come here from Tython if he wishes.”

  
Feliyat scowled.

  
“We don’t have anything to report.” She snapped. “Not until we do some investigation.”

  
Ogura tilted her head. “You should stay calm. It is not the Jedi way to let emotions dictate one’s actions.”

  
Feliyat breathed in and counted to five. “I _am_ calm.” She assured as her nails dug into her palms.

  
“But my point stands. We need to give Master Vol something to go on, if there’s even anything to report.”

  
Ogura tilted her head, thinking.

  
If she said no, Feliyat was going to shove her into the water and go on herself.

  
Ogura nodded.

  
“Okay.”

* * *

  
True to the Sith’s word, the resort did indeed have a casino.

  
It also had a spa, a gym and no less than six restaurants.

  
If Feliyat hadn’t been sworn to a life of simplicity and non-materialism, she would be in heaven.

  
She wasn’t jealous that Sith got to have fun like this, while Jedi got to sit and meditate on rocks instead.

  
Hedonism was bad.

  
Zeltronian eight-appendage hot oil massages and cocktails on tap were also bad.

  
She sighed, grumpy as she loitered outside one of the restaurants.

  
She and her two teammates had been spying on the Sith for two days, and had turned up nothing.

  
That wasn’t to say that there was nothing to find because there had to be, but that they hadn’t turned up a Force-damned bit of evidence of wrongdoing.

  
In fact, the only thing the Sith seemed to be guilty of was having a criminally good time.

  
Darth Venator was nothing like what she had expected.

  
He wasn’t swathed in spikes, unhinged and violent. He hadn’t electrocuted anyone.

  
He seemed to be quite comfortable in an array of aggressively patterned shirts and sand coloured shorts, sunglasses perched on his nose and hair a windswept mess.

  
His laugh was loud and somewhat abrasive. He seemed to have no sense of shame or embarrassment, and Feliyat had been surprised to see him and the dark haired man they had met previously share a kiss. Now that she was looking properly, they were very familiar with one another.

Touches lingered, they smiled at each other, Venator flirted and the human blushed, a pleased smile on his face. Once, she had caught them curled up together on the beach at sunset, watching as the sky lit up as the twin suns went down. She had left when they had started _kissing_.

  
If she was being honest with herself, she found them fascinating.

  
What kind of person would willingly enter into a relationship with a Sith?

  
Was he unhinged, or simply easily manipulated? Perhaps that was just how it was in the Empire, which was staggering. Did Imperials not think anything of sharing their lives with a Force sensitive predator with a penchant for playing with its food?  
Her comm chirped in her ear, making her jump and her head-tails tingle.

  
“Flutterplume, this is Akk Dog, do you have eyes on the target?”

  
Narrowing her eyes, she tapped the comm in her ear. Ogura, as always, was monotone.

  
“This is Flutterplume. Not yet, where’s he approaching from?” Feliyat asked, looking around.  
“West corridor. Be advised, he's not alone.”

  
She was about to ask what her emotionless comrade meant, but she heard them before she saw them.

  
It seemed like the Sith had brought his whole crew, who they had seen in ones and twos but not all together.

  
They seemed to be an eclectic mix.

  
The Sith was arm in arm with two women, while the man they had identified as his lover was tapping away at a small pad as he walked, frowning.

  
They seemed content.

  
Even the big redheaded man, who was talking animatedly with the Twi'lek on Venator’s left arm, wasn’t scowling. The human woman on the Sith's right was beautiful, and there was something serene yet fierce about the way she held herself, wearing her white sun dress like a Mandalorian wore armour. She tingled in the Force, like fresh snow that could build into an avalanche. Feliyat would have thought her a Jedi if not for the fact she was on the arm of a Darth and how the Force shivered in her presence as it resonated with that of the Sith.

  
The Twi'lek was loud and her attention went to the blue skinned young woman, who was chattering to Venator now, who was nodding at her. Her dress was simple and flattering, and Feliyat saw her blush purple as the Sith said something charming, flashing her a wink and roguish smile. She punched his arm and he laughed, the Twi'lek shoving him lightly as she fought her blush.

  
Feliyat couldn’t believe she was still _alive_.

  
“Malavai, you can stop working now.” Venator said, glancing over at his lover.

  
Lover. That was so weird.

  
The human glanced up, a knot between his brows.

“I’m just finishing off some work-"

  
“Please?”

  
The human looked conflicted, but eventually stowed his holopad away. Venator smiled, and moved to walk closer to him, the women on his arms moving to accompany one another.

  
He offered his arm in a roguish, gentlemanly fashion, and the Imperial didn’t seem able to hold a smile. He took the Sith's arm, and found himself pulled close.

  
He went pink, but he had an embarrassed, pleased smile on his face as he gave in to the affection. The two women exchanged sly looks and engaged the redhead in conversation, leaving the two lovers to walk together.

  
Feliyat watched, fascinated, as the Sith shifted to press a kiss to the human’s temple, his eyes closing for a moment. He was smiling faintly, and his grip had shifted to an arm around the man’s waist.

  
The human mirrored him, slipping an arm around the Mirialan.

  
They spoke quietly as they walked a few paces behind their companions.

  
Feliyat peeked out from where she was loitering by an oversize fern in a ridiculously shaped pot, ignoring how the different Force signatures made her head tails curl.

  
Suddenly, the Sith stopped in his tracks, and she felt her breath catch.

  
Her hearts beating a drum in her chest, she watched him tilt his head like a hunting animal, before turning to look directly at her hiding place.

  
“Come out, little Jedi.” He called; tone so friendly she was sure she was going to die.

  
She was frozen, but she managed to force herself into movement again. It wasn’t like she could keep pretending.

  
She stood, ready to fight or run.

  
Probably the second one.

  
The human’s expression was terrifying, his eyes cold and his hand on what she suspected was the hilt of a blade behind him.

  
The Sith seemed more amused than anything, but she wasn’t reassured.

  
She _wasn’t_ shaking.

  
It was... adrenaline. That was it.

  
“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Venator grinned, eyes bright.

  
He had sharp teeth.

  
Her skin itched, and she wanted nothing more than to run and jump into the ocean.

  
Nautolan or not, anywhere would be preferable to standing in front of this... this _shark_.

  
“My lord,” the human, Captain Quinn, murmured, never taking his eyes off her. “The Jedi cannot be allowed to-"

  
She hoped he wasn’t about to say ‘live’.

  
The Sith chuckled.

  
“She’s just curious. Aren’t you?” he asked, stepping closer. His eyes were very bright.

  
She flinched for her lightsaber, and his grin widened.

  
“No need for that.” He murmured, clearly deeply amused. “Darling, do you really think it would help?”  
Against a Darth? Master V'lante called her reckless, not stupid.

  
Feliyat swallowed painfully. “Not really,” she managed, just about capable of an awkward shrug. “But it would make me feel better and maybe the people who found my body would think I went out like a badass.”

  
Venator laughed, and it was a loud, unexpected sound. His laugh was mirthful and honest, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

  
“Little Jedi, I’m not going to kill you,” he assured, chuckling. “What would be the point? Unless you come at me, I don’t see why I should do you in.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m on holiday.”

  
Her disbelief must have shown on her face, because he snorted.

  
“I told you before, we really are here for some sea and sun. Well, _some_ of us are here for sun.”

  
He added the last bit with a pointed look at the Captain, who narrowed his eyes.

  
“I _burn_ ,” he snapped. “And unless you want me to be completely useless in the field due to _erythema_ -"

  
Venator smirked, wiggling his eyebrows and interrupting him.

  
“I suppose at least this way I get to rub sun lotion all over you.” He leered, and the officer flushed pink, scowling.

  
“Be quiet, my lord.” He muttered without heat, and Venator laughed again.

  
Feliyat was beginning to feel very confused.

  
“So... will you let me go?” she asked, hopeful. “I uh, I’ll stop spying on you.”

  
Venator blinked. “Let you- Jedi, you’re not a _prisoner_.”

  
He seemed very confused.

  
“I don’t care what you do, although I would like you to stop spying on me.” He allowed. “I usually wouldn’t mind, but it’s making Quinn uncomfortable. I swear, no one believes us when we say we aren’t doing anything.”

  
Feliyat just nodded stupidly.

  
He forged on.

  
“So, either join us for dinner and drinks, or leave.” He said with a wave of his hand. “But please stop loitering in the ferns. You are... not as subtle as you think you are.”

  
Okay... she could now cross ‘have a Sith invite you out for drinks' off her bucket list.

  
Still.

  
“Uh, no thank you.” She mumbled.

  
He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  
With that, he turned to leave.

  
Feliyat stood there, waiting for the yank.

  
Should... should something not be happening, right now?

  
But no, the Sith really was just walking off, looking at his timepiece with frown.

  
“Darth Venator asked you to leave.”

  
Oh.

  
She had forgotten about the boyfriend.

  
He was looking at her like he wanted to gut her, and his blue eyes were so unnerving in their intensity that she swallowed and had to resist the urge to step back.

  
“You should leave, Jedi.” He said slowly, “Before my Lord gets out of earshot.”

  
It took a second before she realised what he meant, and backed up a few steps.

  
He watched her.

  
What the kriff was _wrong_ with these people?!

  
“My Lord is... more lenient than I believe he should be.” He murmured, his loose, open collared shirt not making him any less menacing.

  
And she had thought the Sith was the problem.

  
“If I see you again-"

  
“You’ll kill me, I get it.” She interrupted, throat constricting.

  
The human narrowed his eyes.

  
“You’ll _wish_ I killed you.” He said, his nose in the air. “Get out.”

  
Master Vol often said that discretion was the better part of valour, so Feliyat didn’t hesitate for a moment to turn and bolt for the exit.

  
It wasn’t running away, it was... strategic retreat.

  
That was it.

  
Master Vol would have to make do with what he had.

  
She wasn’t even being paid for this.

* * *

  
Months later, when she was back on Tython and was finally finished with her debriefings, she heard the news about Eriosa.

  
It had been on the morning holo-news, and she almost choked on her breakfast when she saw the figure armoured in black, green skin standing out amongst the rubble and smoke. He looked very different in armour than he did on the beach, with sunglasses and a cocktail.

  
He wasn’t bothering to hide as he stood behind the Minister that was delivering a shaky speech in front of the ruined doors to the planetary government building.

  
He was smiling like the shark she had compared him to, a familiar dark-haired human officer standing at his right hand, prim and poised.

  
She felt sick.

  
He seemed completely at ease with the camera drones fixing on him, so much so that the human at his side was completely eclipsed by his presence.  
She had been so close.

  
She had stood and bantered with a monster.

  
With a bad feeling, she finished her oro-omlette, and sighed, thinking back to her conversation with him.

  
_‘I swear, no one believes us when we say we aren’t doing anything.’_

  
She glanced back up to the holoscreen, and snorted softly.

  
_I wonder why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could draw, because I would love to be able to draw a picture of Ven on a sun lounger, shades on, in his swimming trunks and flip flops, with a cocktail in hand, drinking out of a bendy straw. :')


	29. It was time to change schools again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will do your duty.

“Malavai, you disappoint me.”

  
Malavai ducked his head, a rolling feeling making his gut clench.

  
“Sorry, mama.”

  
His mother sighed.

  
“You know that this,” she gestured to the holopad on the table that contained his latest progress reports. “Is not good enough.”

  
He knew.

  
Oh, he _knew_.

  
“Sorry, mama.”

  
“You are supposed to be leaps and bounds ahead of these... children.” She said, her blue eyes flat and hard. “Yet you are not.”

  
He was years ahead of anyone else his age, and top of his class.

  
She talked about him like he wasn’t the same as the other children.

  
He wasn’t, he knew that. It still hurt.

  
It still wasn’t good enough.

  
“I warned you about laziness, Malavai.” She snapped, looking down on him. She was tall, and seemed impossibly poised.

  
“I have spent a considerable sum, and countless hours on you, and you repay that with laziness? With shoddy work?”

  
He felt sick.

  
“Sorry, mama.”

  
He was sorry. He was. It was just... some of the subjects were hard. Very hard.

  
No one would answer his questions in class, considering that talking to him simply wasn’t done.  
After all, he was eight now, and that gap between him and his fifteen year old classmates felt insurmountable.

  
“We have another session today, with Doctor Levine.” His mother murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  
Malavai didn’t like Doctor Levine.

  
He was rough and his hands were cold under his gloves, and he always seemed like Malavai inconvenienced him in some way, just by existing.

  
Another day spent being poked and prodded and scanned and tested.

  
The physical tests were not so bad, just simple ones that checked his reflexes and senses.

  
The mental ones were more difficult.

  
He felt like every question was there to throw him off.

  
He never found out his scores, but he wasn’t stupid. No matter what the doctors thought.

  
Frowns and concerned words spoken to his mother, who gritted her teeth and hissed her answers, told him the truth.

  
He was a failure.

  
He wasn’t good enough.

  
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t be perfect.

  
He tried still. He wanted someone to smile at him.  
Sometimes, the teachers would tell the others in his class that they had done well.

  
He didn’t think anyone had ever said that to him.

  
After all, being better wasn’t extraordinary. It was expected.

  
It wasn’t enough to be the best of an average bunch.

  
He nodded.

  
“Yes, mama.”

  
She seemed to regard him for a moment, expression cool.

  
“If you do not start putting effort in, Malavai, we will have to think about a different route.” She said eventually. “Do you want that?”

  
The answer was obviously supposed to be ‘no', but really, he had no idea. What would that ‘different route' even entail?

  
“No, mama.”

  
“Then listen.” She snapped, like she was commanding a unit. “You will improve. You will not leave your room until the assigned work is done, both your schoolwork and the extra that Doctor Levine has given you. When you have finished that, you will see me for more.”

  
Malavai nodded silently. He would miss climbing, but that wasn’t as important as schoolwork.

  
“You will not be returning to that school.”

  
He looked up, surprised.

  
She frowned.

  
“Do not gape at me like some child.” She ordered, and he nodded, looking down in embarrassment. “They are not teaching you well enough. You will be transferred.”

  
Malavai stayed quiet.

  
This would be school number six.

  
He wondered what this new one would be like.

  
“You are dismissed.”

  
Nodding quietly, he left, heading for his room so he could get started on the schoolwork that waited for him.

  
The pile was huge, more than usual.

  
He got to work.

 

* * *

"Explain.”

  
Malavai _really_ didn’t want to.

  
“Mother, I-"

  
“Shut up.”

  
He fell silent, feeling sick. Nerves clawed at his belly and made his head swim. He tried to control his breathing.

  
“No excuses.” She snapped, voice like a whip. “You will explain this.”

  
She jabbed a finger at the holopad, and he couldn’t help but wince.

  
At fourteen, he still couldn’t match her height, although he was catching up.

  
The doctors said he would grow to be five feet and ten inches exactly. He had no reason to doubt them.

  
The one thing that hadn’t expected was the mark on his face. He often caught his mother staring at it, like she wanted to burn it off.

  
It was just a mole. He didn’t see the point.

  
He wasn’t allowed outside often, but he knew he freckled in the sun.

  
He supposed she hadn’t picked that, when they had given her the form to design him.

  
It must have stung.

  
Three questions incorrect on his last test.

  
Three.

  
He was still top of his class.

  
His fellows (as if he could call them that), were significantly older than him, but he had them all beaten. Usually.

  
But three?

  
“I... I suppose I thought I knew the answer.” He said lamely.

  
“Of _course_ you thought you knew,” she snarled, gesturing sharply. “Clearly, you did not.”

  
She was tense and every line on her face was hard.  
“What is it?” she demanded, and he was confused.  
“A girl? A boy? Some stupid hobby that you have been neglecting your studies for? Are you simply lazy?”

  
Malavai felt a flush of hurt and anger at that.

  
She _knew_ he wasn’t.

  
“Mother, I tried my best!” he said instead, and he hated how childish it sounded.

  
“Your best is pathetic.” She snapped, furious. “How dare you throw this back in my face? I have given you everything, and you can’t even be bothered to use it to its full potential?”

  
“Mother, _please_ -"

  
“I am not finished talking.” She interrupted, and he bit his tongue. “This will not happen again. I will require weekly reports from the university in your progress. Dismissed.”

  
Malavai wanted to scream.

  
He didn’t have any more hours in the day. He spent every waking moment studying and practicing, and it still wasn’t good enough.

  
He had to be better.

* * *

Stims really were a wonderful invention.

  
His progress soared for a while, and his mother looked like she approved.

  
He made sure all traces were gone from his bloodstream in time for the tests, and all was well.  
He was getting there.

  
He was finally getting there.

  
Until he wasn’t.

  
He _plateaued_.

  
So, he took more.

  
He knew the safe limit; he knew what he was doing.  
Of course he did. He was seventeen, he wasn’t a child any more.

  
His mood plummeted and his sleep cycle became erratic.

  
It was only when his hands shook so bad that he dropped the stylus he was holding did he realise what was happening.

  
His tutor stared.

  
“Sorry,” he murmured, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  
A cardinal sin, but the lesser of two evils.

  
With a wary eye, his tutor returned to his lesson.

  
Malavai kept his hands under the table, and did not take any more notes.

* * *

“You swore to me that you would be better.”

  
He swallowed, pain in his head making every thought a lance.

  
“Your improvement has been inadequate.”

  
He gritted his teeth.

  
He _knew_ that.

  
He didn’t need to be told _again_.

  
“Doctor Levine tells me that you are inattentive.”

  
He was _tired_.

  
“You will have no more sessions with him.”

  
He glanced up, shocked. He remembered to keep his mouth closed.

  
“Mother, I-"

  
“Do not interrupt me.” She bit out, and he suddenly realised that something was different.

  
Wrong.

  
She could barely stand to look at him.

  
“Sixteen years, and I am left with failure.”

  
Something cold rolled in his gut, and he didn’t think it was the withdrawal.

He needed a little top up.

  
Just a small one.

  
“You will be joining the military academy, starting in two days.”

  
He stared.

  
He wasn’t supposed to go into the academy.

  
He wasn’t designed for-

  
Oh.

  
 _Oh_.

  
His hands started to shake.

  
“Mother, _please_ -"

  
She closed her eyes, and looked almost regretful.

  
“Malavai, do not make this harder than it has to be.”

  
What part of this could be _easy_?

  
“Mama, I can try harder!” He assured, panicking. His vision swam and his heart pounded. “I promise, I can-"

  
“You can do nothing.” She sighed, finally looking at him. It was... dispassionate.

  
“You will enter the academy, and you will do your duty.” She ordered.

  
He felt numb. Like he was watching this on a holo and not actually living it.

  
“Maybe your replacement will be more promising.”

  
Malavai had known failure before. Known it every day of his life.

  
He had thought he understood it, was used to it.

  
He couldn’t help but start to cry.

  
“Mama, I’m _sorry_.”

  
She sighed.

  
“I’m sure you are.” See said simply. “Clean yourself up. You have class in the morning.”

  
She turned and faced the window, and he was left standing there, hands shaking from stims and emotion, tears on his cheeks and his heart so painful he wanted to scream.

  
He didn’t.

  
Instead, he dried his tears on his sleeve, and left.  
He glanced back.

  
She was tapping away at a holopad, frowning as she worked.

  
The hurt between his ribs yanked hard and he scrubbed at his eyes again.

  
Her eyes.

  
She had told them to give him her eyes.

  
How embarrassing, to have a failure bare such a resemblance to you. He bet she regretted her choices now.

  
He sat on his bed, and for once he didn’t reach for a book.

  
He looked around.

  
Nothing to indicate this room held a person, save for the bed. Even that was regulation.

  
He realised that nothing in this room was his.

  
Swallowing painfully, he unearthed the small case from where he had hidden it.

  
Only three doses left.

  
He supposed he wouldn’t need them, now.

  
Well, maybe just one, to tide him over until his hands stopped shaking.

  
He swallowed painfully.

  
He still felt numb.

  
He was _nothing_.

  
But he would do his duty.


	30. We climbed to the top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many years on.

“Do try and keep up, my lord.”

  
Ven’fir liked to hear Malavai sounding so light and teasing, but had resigned himself to the fact that the human tended to target him for the teasing.

  
He gritted his teeth, cursing when something sharp bit into his palm.

  
“Kriffing _rocks_.” He grunted, swinging himself to the side and hooking one foot in a crevice. The harness was tight and a little uncomfortable in the heat, but it was comforting to know he wouldn’t turn into jam if he put a hand wrong.

  
He glanced up, blinking stinging salt from his eyes.

  
Malavai was far ahead of him, and Ven’fir allowed himself a moment to admire him. They were climbing in the shade of one of the massive mesas, but the occasional strip of sunlight that poked through gaps in the rock formations was enough to illuminate the rock face.

  
Vette and Jaesa had taken one look at the sheer rock and got into the air-conditioned RV, heading the long way to the top. They would, he hoped, take pity on him and have a drink waiting for when he reached the top.

  
If he reached the top, he thought grumpily, moving to stretch so he could grab the next hand hold.

  
Malavai _liked_ doing this, for some reason.

  
He was like a... a mountain goat or something.  
It did provide a lovely view, though.

  
Tight, stretchy clothing, skin on display, showing off how flexible he was...

  
Ven’fir was suddenly a lot more motivated to speed up and catch his partner.

  
He was old dammit, of course he was slow!

  
Malavai had raised an eyebrow at him earlier when he had voiced this sentiment, reminding him that the human was not only several years his senior, but that the Sith also had a cybernetic arm that, obviously, trumped both the humans flesh ones.

  
And what nice arms they were, Ven’fir mused, gaining a few meters by using his feet to push himself up a slice of rock.

  
Malavai had thought he had forgotten about Tattooine.

  
To be fair, he absolutely had, but something had reminded him and he then he'd had the best idea for a birthday gift.

  
Well, maybe not best for him.

  
Malavai was enjoying himself, though.

  
And that was kind of the point.

  
He let himself hang by one hand, content that he both looked awesome doing it, and was definitely not going to fall off. His muscles strained and screamed at him, but it felt good.

  
He scanned the desert, kind of agreeing with Malavai.

  
It _was_ beautiful.

  
Still, he thought as he swung himself back and started climbing again, it would be just as beautiful when he was at the top with a drink in his hand and sitting in a deck chair.

  
It was a hell of a scramble for the top, and he almost fell of twice (which scared the shit out of him), but he was just about there.

  
Malavai had, of course, unceremoniously abandoned him.

  
He could see the ledge.

  
It was so _close_ -

  
A smiling face popped over the edge, and Vette waved at him as she watched him struggle.

  
He was built for combat and running, not launching himself off rocks and hanging on by his fingertips as he scrambled up them.

  
“Having fun?” she asked, relaxed and definitely not fighting for her life on this stupid rock.

  
He growled at her, and she laughed.

  
“Bad Sith,” she teased. “It would be _so_ funny if I shoved you.”

  
“I would quite literally kill you.” He grunted as he braced one arm on an outcrop of rock, straight and straining as he rested for a moment.

  
“Did he make it already?” he asked, catching his breath. He was in a patch of sunlight, and he could already feel it burning his skin as he hung. He wasn’t wearing sleeves, which helped with the whole ‘not snagged on a rock’ thing, but also left him open to sunburn and a myriad of scratches.

  
At least Malavai had agreed to rub sunscreen all over him that morning.

  
Vette nodded, her lekku hanging down last her shoulders as she grinned at his predicament.

  
“Yeah. Slowpoke.”

  
He glared, although it didn’t contain heat. She just sniggered and didn’t move to help. She and Jaesa had agreed to meet them for the penultimate day of their trip, and while he like being alone with Malavai, it was nice to see them.

  
Suddenly, a bigger shape moved behind her.  
A hand descended on her shoulder and she jumped, wobbling and flailing in panic near the edge.

  
The hand gripped her shirt to keep her from falling, and Malavai blinked innocently at her swearing as he pulled her back.

  
Ven’fir knew better. Malavai was anything but innocent.

  
“You’re very close to the edge, Vette.” He reproved, like he hadn’t just given her a heart attack. “Are you trying to fall?”

  
Vette, heaving her breaths and scowling, scrambled back.

  
“You’re such a -" she launched into a tirade of curses in several languages, most of which Ven’fir was certain she didn’t actually speak, just knew how to swear in. She was still cursing as she stomped off, leaving them alone.

  
Looking pleased with himself, Malavai reached down to offer his hand.

  
Grinning, Ven’fir accepted the hand and let Malavai help him up.

  
With a great effort and lots of scrambling, he made it over the edge and collapsed in the sun, panting.

  
He threw an arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun, otherwise content to lay on his back and expire.

  
“You’re going to get sunburn.” Malavai pointed out from somewhere over him.

  
Ven’fir grunted at him.

  
“Jaesa got a drink for you,” the human pointed out, “But it’s getting warm.”

  
With a glare and complaints on his tongue, Ven’fir forced himself to sit up.

  
Malavai was standing beside him, a damp towel around his neck and drinking from a canteen.

  
He looked good.

  
He was sweaty and dishevelled, his clothes rumpled and his hands gloved to help him climb. His hair stood in unruly, damp spikes from where he had towelled it, and his skin was flushed.

  
Still, he was the loveliest thing Ven’fir had ever seen, and he aimed a smile up at the oblivious human.

  
“Help?” He asked winningly, stretching his arms out like a child.

  
Malavai snorted, clipping the canteen onto the carabiner at his belt.

  
With a grunt, he hauled the Sith to his feet.

  
Ven’fir took the opportunity to close the distance and press a quick kiss to his mouth, tasting salt and slightly metallic canteen water.

  
Drawing back, he felt his chest constrict in a pleasant way.

  
Malavai's cheeks were pink from more than exertion, and his pale skin was burnished with a scattering of freckles over anywhere that had been exposed to the sun. They covered the bridge of his nose and over his shoulders, down over his forearms.

  
Ven’fir thought they were cute.

  
His stubble was longer than he usually kept it, their camping trip making it hard to keep the growth perfectly controlled.

  
Still, he was showing more grey than black in his beard now, turning his once dark stubble into a pleasant salt and pepper.

  
His hair was the same, silver and grey overtaking black and making him look, in Ven’fir’s humble opinion, like an absolute silver fox.

  
The lines around his eyes were deeper, crows feet showing more obviously when he smiled, and fainter ones around his brow and mouth showing his age.

  
He was as in shape as ever could be, although perhaps a little stockier than the slim Lieutenant that Ven’fir had first met on Balmorra.

  
He knew Malavai looked at him and saw the faint silver threading through dark curls, the lines around his eyes and how he complained about his knees aching now and then.

  
“What?” the human asked, smiling curiously. “You're staring.”

  
Ven’fir brought a hand up to brush the back of his knuckles against one cheek. Malavai blinked at the feather light touch.

  
“Just admiring you,” the Sith murmured. “You look good.”

  
Malavai made a face, still terrible at accepting an honest compliment.

  
“I look like a disaster.” He muttered, “And _old_ disaster.”

  
Ven’fir laughed softly, resisting the urge to pull Malavai in for a hug.

  
His body was bone tired and his muscles screamed at him, but it was a good feeling.

  
He could fight or run for hours, but rock climbing was stretching muscles he didn’t know he had.

  
Still, it was worth it.

  
“That makes two of us.” He teased, and Malavai wrinkled his nose.

  
“You’re only a little older than I was when we first met.” He pointed out. “I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis.”

  
Ven’fir rolled his eyes. So dramatic.

  
“You are _not_.”

  
Malavai chuckled, idly playing with the loops on the Sith's belt.

  
“Had a good time?” Ven’fir asked, smiling.

  
The human nodded, expression impish. “Wonderful. Almost lets me forget why we’re here.”

  
Ven’fir scoffed. “Birthdays are not that bad.” he defended.

  
Malavai gave him a look.

  
“Yes, they are. They put a number to how ancient I am.”

  
“You’re fifty. That is not old.” Ven’fir said flatly.

  
Malavai made a face. “Don’t say it out loud.” He complained.

  
Ven’fir snorted, and stepped back. “I need a drink,” he declared, heading for where Jaesa and Vette had set up their camp. “And then I’m going to sleep for about a week.”

  
“You did well,” Malavai said as he followed, catching up. The sun was on its way down, and Ven’fir estimated that they had an hour of light left.

  
“I had a good teacher,” Ven’fir demurred, smiling. “Also, I’m amazing at everything I do.”

  
“That is _highly_ debatable.”

  
Ven’fir raised an eyebrow in challenge.

  
“Everything I do and every decision I make is flawless.”

  
Malavai scoffed.

  
“Now I _know_ you’re delusional.”

  
Ven’fir gave him a sly smile, walking a little closer. He brushed his fingertips over the small of the humans back. The RV that Vette and Jaesa were sharing for the night was parked there, incongruously neat among the wildness of the desert. It did, however, have a fresher in it.

  
Ven’fir grinned as he led them towards it.

  
“I married you, didn’t I?” he purred. “Best decision I ever made.”

  
Malavai, blushing pink, gave him a look. “Your proposal left something to be desired.” He pointed out with a small smile, unable to stay stone faced.

  
Ven’fir waved his free hand.

  
“I was panicking.” He defended. “You have no sense of romance.”

  
“I was _unconscious_.” Malavai muttered, “And we were surrounded by Jedi.”

  
Ven’fir wrinkled his nose at the reminder. “Not my finest moment,” he admitted.

  
Malavai smiled and paused to press a kiss to his cheek.

  
“I think it was up there.” He murmured, expression soft. His expression turned teasing. “Even if you were gone when I woke up. Unbelievable.”

  
Ven’fir cracked a grin, feeling light and warm with affection.

  
“At least it was unique?” he said, shrugging.

  
Malavai shook his head.

  
“I can’t deny that,” he murmured fondly as he opened the door.

  
They took turns in the tiny fresher, coming out much cleaner and more comfortable than when they went in. Malavai had stolen a good portion of the hot water heated from the solar panels, but cold water was good for the hair anyway, Ven’fir had read.

  
The chill was beginning to settle in as they headed back to camp in the gloom, dressed in clean, warm clothes and staying close to one another.

  
Ven’fir had his hand in Malavai's back pocket as they entered the perimeter of their camp, the human letting his arm fall around the Sith's waist.

  
The camp was high up on the mesa, set back to a safe distance. Tents and chairs were already set up, and someone had started a campfire.

  
“Ugh, you two are so gross.”

  
Ven’fir glanced at Vette, who was looking at them over the top of her sunglasses and wrinkling her nose.

  
“You've been saying that for the last eleven years." Ven’fir pointed out, flopping down on a low cushion and sprawling in such a way as to invite Malavai to sprawl with him.

  
The human was a little more poised than that, but he did come and sit with him, leaning into the curve of his body. It felt good to have him there, warm and solid.

  
“Because you’ve been gross for eleven years,” Vette snarked right back.

  
Malavai let his hand rest on Ven’fir's knee, feeling warmth through his clothes. The Sith had an arm curled loosely around his shoulders.

  
“Where's Jaesa?” Malavai asked, casting an eye around for her.

  
Vette waved a hand. “She went to go and look at some lizard she found. She’s such a nerd.”

  
Ven’fir heard the fondness in her voice and smiled, warmth blooming in his chest.

  
Malavai shifted, body loose and pliant. Ven’fir marvelled at the change in him.

  
It felt like so long ago when he would have felt this impossible.

  
Smiling, he moved to press a kiss to the human’s cheek, and got a squeeze of his knee in response.

  
“Someone said something about a drink?” he asked, looking around.

  
“Over in the cool-box, Master.” Jaesa emerged from the gloom, the brilliance of the sunset not enough to announce her presence. Her eyes, burnished gold and lined in kohl, were smiling. She held a small holo-camera and for once, wasn’t wearing robes.

  
Ven’fir pulled away from Malavai to dig through the box, and Jaesa settled by Vette.

  
They sat close, their legs touching.

  
Ven’fir emerged from the depths of the cool-box with a large bottle and some sturdy looking plexi-glass tumblers in his hands.

  
“Mantellian cognac?” he said, smiling broadly. “Jaesa, you’re the best.”

  
“I know,” the young apprentice smiled slyly, “Shall we?”

  
Vette was trying to get the fire going, but the flames were small and didn’t seem to want to take.  
Scowling, she seemed about ready to throw the firelighter over the edge, when Ven’fir chuckled.  
He sat back down and, passing the bottle to Malavai, lazily flicked his fingers at the fire.

  
Heat bloomed and sparks skittered over the sandy stone, the flames illuminating all four of them.

  
Vette, who had jumped when the flames had leapt, shot him a considering look.

  
“I forgot you could do that,” she admitted, “You and your weird Sith magic.”

  
Jaesa laughed, and nudged the Twi'lek with an elbow.

  
“Jedi are usually better with water and earth, but Sith are good with fire and air.” She explained, watching the flames. “The ‘elements' are superstition of course, but some Force talents are better suited to either Jedi or Sith.” She murmured.

  
Ven’fir nodded. “That’s not to say Sith are always good at air or fire, and can’t do anything with water or earth. I’m rubbish at lightning,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I’m pretty decent at sensing the Force echoes in nature.”

  
Jaesa nodded. “I can’t summon fire at all,” she sighed. “And I’m passable with lightning, but best with water. I can usually tell the weather long before it shows signs, and I can find water without a scanner.” She smiled. “My earth senses are... alright, I suppose.”

  
Ven’fir smiled at her. “You’ve always been better with the Force than me. More... delicate.” He hummed. “Intricate.”

  
Jaesa smiled, glowing at the praise. “That’s kind of you.” She murmured, pleased.

  
Vette stretched, pushing her arms above her head. By now they all had a tumbler of liquor, and she grinned as she raised hers in a toast.

  
“To Quinn,” she said, voice carrying. “For being super old.”

  
Malavai rolled his eyes.

  
“You’re not so sprightly yourself, now.” He pointed out.

  
Ven’fir chuckled and raised his glass. “Happy fiftieth birthday,” he said fondly, and kissed his lover’s cheek. “You’re still as sexy as ever.” He added, smirking.

  
Vette made a retching noise, and Jaesa couldn’t help but give an ugly snort into her glass.

  
“You’re _both_ old.” Vette declared.

  
Ven’fir frowned. “I am _not_.”

  
The Twi'lek smirked, the lines around her own eyes faint but visible. She was as bright and vivacious as she always had been, something Ven’fir suspected would never change, even with the looming advent of her thirties.

  
Jaesa was as beautiful as ever, barely showing signs of the years that had passed. She was warmer now, in the Force. Her teachings had finally settled into something like a comfortable balance, and she seemed infinitely happier for it. Her shoulder leaned against Vette's as they watched the fire, light making her golden eyes shine.

  
“You’re nearly forty.” Vette stressed, waving her tumbler around. Jaesa’s eyes followed it. “That's old.”

  
Ven’fir, reposing on the cushions and with his husband of many years leaning comfortably into his side.

  
“Forty is not old, and I still look amazing.” He said with a grin.

  
“That is true,” Malavai murmured, smiling into his glass.

  
They sat around the fire, drinking expensive cognac and watching as the sun finally lost its hold on the horizon and slipped beneath the dunes. The night was crisp and cold, and would get even colder, but for now the fire kept them warm and happy, liquor warming their bellies and loosening their tongues.  
The stars were bright out here, away from the lights of Mos Ila or Anchorhead.

  
They talked and laughed well into the night, and Ven’fir felt so desperately fond, he wrapped his arms around Malavai and held him close to feed the feeling.

  
The beginning seemed so long ago, and everything was so different now.

  
Still, he and Malavai were together and strong as ever, and Vette and Jaesa kept in touch often.  
It was nice to have them back again though, even if just for a few days.

  
They would pack up the camp tomorrow, and head back to Mos Ila, where their ship was waiting. Vette and Jaesa would accompany them back home for a few days, before leaving again.

  
Ven’fir smiled, heart swollen with affection.

  
Malavai was recounting some incident that had Vette howling with laughter and Jaesa breathlessly egging him on, her eyes sparkling from affection and alcohol.

  
There was definitely a lot of alcohol involved as, as much as he loved Malavai, none of his stories were ever _that_ hilarious. He watched Jaesa prop Vette up before she toppled over.

  
Maybe his knees ached a little after battle, and perhaps his precious hair was turning silver.

  
Maybe he felt quite old when the young ones came up to him, all full of fervour and righteous fire.

  
He still had his moments of course, no Sith would ever be completely placid, but he realised just how much he had mellowed over the years.

  
No one ever dared mention retirement to him or Malavai, and they had better continue not doing so if they wanted to keep breathing.

  
He still made the Galaxy tremble at his approach, and his friends and husband were still with him and happy.

  
What more could he ask for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven'fir is right, fifty isn't old!


	31. The one thing I'll never forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nebulous allegiances and shifting loyalties got one a bit of a reputation.

“You have the dossier. Will you accept?”

  
“After this, we’re _even_.”

* * *

  
Cipher Eight really was a fascinating creature, he thought as he idly followed the man’s progress through the city.

  
The scope was top of the range, and even at these distances, provided a clear view of the man and his surroundings.

  
Heavy coat slung over his shoulders, striding through the drizzle without pause or hurry, he didn’t stand out against the muted grey and silver of Kaas City.

  
His steps were heavy, although he moved with the gait of a man fresh from combat, wary and uncomfortable in peace. He was twitchy and reticent, and he wondered what he had been like before it all.

  
Everything was, of course, outlined in the dossier, but he found that words never quite prepared you for the reality of these things.

  
Nine months in the hands of a Republic splinter group, and he didn’t break.

  
How interesting.

  
Only two got out alive, and the other would never be of use to anyone. The gibbering wreck had been put down soon after her extraction, leaving Major Quinn the sole survivor of those captured.

  
He adjusted the scope, zooming out to follow the man as he headed for the Citadel.

  
He had seen the holos after the assault on the bunker. Some of the guards had been brutalized beyond recognition, the savagery of the killings bordered on Sith-like.

  
He was impressed. He preferred his work a little more clinical, but he could respect a man that, after nine months of hell, had seized the opportunity with aplomb.

  
The trail of blood led to the overseer's office, and the man had not died peacefully.

  
Someone had carved at him while he was still alive. Both knees shot out, his tongue removed, and his left eye torn out.

  
Lastly, a shot to the head that blew most of his brains over the wall, leaving most of his skull gone.  
It had been very deliberate.

  
Smiling faintly, he watched the figure disappear into the Citadel.

  
Rain poured from the overhang he had hidden himself under, and he settled down to wait for the man’s exit.

  
Major Quinn had entered, but Cipher Eight would exit.

* * *

  
The squad were really something, he mused while he watched the intellicam footage from his little hideaway. A cup of caf steamed by his hand as he scrolled, and an empty box of Rattataki noodles lay abandoned next to it. Extra spicy.

  
Handpicked specialists that no one else wanted.  
Captain Caspir Montclaire, the medic. He was the consummate soldier, a true patriot. Repeatedly refused promotion on grounds of wanting to stay with his squad. The squad was dead and gone, but the Captain lived on.

  
Sergeant Dolu Fisher. Special forces, specialist in demolitions, heavy ordnance and languages. According to her dossier, she spoke six. She had also beaten her old squad leader so badly the woman was in a medically induced coma, and didn’t look to be waking up any time soon. According to the official report, the repeated accusations of sexual harassment were unrelated.

  
Private Neyon Grellen. Slicing. What that one could do with technology...

  
He was no slouch, he couldn’t afford to be, but it was really quite amazing what one talented slicer could do with a holonet connection and an unlimited supply of caf.

  
Lieutenant Kalja’viranuo’ardieri. Sniper. A damn good one, too. The dossier said his wife was an Ascendancy diplomat posted to Dromund Kaas. He had followed his wife, transferred into the Imperial military and, despite prejudices, made quite a name for himself as an extremely talented sniper.

  
Specialist Ygren Thamar. Formerly of the Galactic Republic, she was accused of war crimes and promptly defected to the Empire before she could be tried and court martialled. She was an engineer, and seemed to enjoy making things that hurt.

  
He wasn’t one to begrudge anyone their hobby, he supposed.

* * *

  
The holos were cute.

  
Copies made their way into his dossiers.

* * *

  
Major Quinn really hated Zakuul, he mused as he watched the team bring the pain to a Zakuulan outpost on Alderaan.

  
The slicer had crippled communications and mutated alarms, the engineer had set up traps and disabled the automated defences, the medic, demolitionist and the Major headed inside and cleaned house.

  
The sniper picked off any stragglers who slipped by.  
The outpost was cleared, the intelligence was copied and the hard drives wiped.

  
Expression grim, the Major activated the detonite the engineer had set, and watched the outpost burn itself into the ground.

  
He watched the flames for a moment before he had to pack up and go.

  
It really had been too long since he caused some carnage.

* * *

  
They didn’t take many prisoners.

  
Those they did take sang like birds.

* * *

  
He took a little time off at one point when the Major was unconscious in the infirmary for a week and there was nothing to watch.

  
He got some other work done, and helped out an acquaintance or two.

  
It was entirely too easy to pull the trigger and see the blood paint the drapes behind the podium. He was disassembling his rifle as the screams started, idly wondering if the man he had just put a bullet through really meant all that he preached.

  
Oh well. It didn’t matter.

  
The other jobs were just as easy. A knife between ribs here, a quick bedroom tumble and stolen data there...

  
It felt good to be back at work.

* * *

  
He watched.

  
Cipher Eight was a pretty thing, when he wasn’t snarling at someone or avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

  
Actually, even then.

  
He wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected from the man who had married the Wrath, but it hadn’t been this.

  
Imperials who ended up the pets of Sith didn’t tend to actually earn their accolades, or at least didn’t earn them anywhere outside the bedroom.

  
He supposed that marriage was going a little far for a pet, and maybe the union had been a genuine one.  
He had been married many times. All fake, of course. Still, just because it was cover didn’t mean one couldn’t enjoy some of the benefits.

  
He mused on the thought idly as he adjusted his scope, looking down on the camp where most of the squad were settling down for the night.

  
The sniper was on lookout, tonight. He would have to be careful to not get caught out.

  
It would be so easy to remove every last one of them, but that wasn’t his goal.

  
Cipher Eight was not a trustworthy individual, even by the Intelligence standards.

  
Too many shifting loyalties, entirely too clever for his own good, and plenty of reasons to be bitter about the Empire.

  
A winning combination that, in the old days, would have had him discreetly picked up by Imperial Intelligence and quietly removed before he became a problem.

  
Oh, he was committed to his mission _now_ , but it was what would happen if Cipher Eight found what he was looking for that was the problem.

  
And he was _very_ good at fixing problems.

  
He turned the dial on his scope and zoomed in, watching through the sights as the Major tapped away on his holopad with unnatural focus. He had always been fascinated with the eugenics programs the Empire seemed so taken with. He wasn't part of one, which really rankled those who were and couldn't beat him on the mats.

  
A few minutes later, there was a soft buzz from his own equipment, letting him know that a copy of the message had been safely intercepted.

  
The man was a _bore_.

  
He didn’t send off the record messages, he didn’t contact people he shouldn’t, he didn’t even search for anything weird on the holonet.

  
He just submitted reports to Command, and occasionally checked the Imperial news feed.

No sordid secrets.

  
How boring.

  
How _suspicious_.

* * *

  
If he ever ended up in close quarters with Cipher Eight, he would need to remember the sheer number of pointy things the man liked to keep on his person.

  
Close quarters meaning either combat or bed, and he was rather hoping it was the latter instead of the former.

That was not in part due to his musing on how Sith didn't keep boring pets, and he was rather interested in finding out how this stiff of a man had kept the interest of a Sith a vivacious as the Wrath for so long. He must have been awfully talented.

Or it was love. He dismissed _that_ thought.

  
He watched as the man buried his combat knife in the neck of the unfortunate Knight that had been standing guard outside a small facility on Anataxi VII, one hand over the mouth to muffle any gurgles or screams. He laid the body down carefully to avoid noise, and crept on.

  
The facility wasn’t completely military, but rather a research outpost. Scientists and other civilians worked there, and he wondered what the squad would do with them.

  
He lost him for a moment in the dense forest, but soon picked him up again when he moved around a patch of moonlight. Dressed in fatigues and dark, practical body armour, he was barely visible in the gloom.

  
He approved.

  
The detonite was entirely too much fun to watch go off, and he heard the Cathar laugh over the comm, delighting in the carnage. She reminded him of someone very similar who he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pity.

  
The civilians had been rounded up and restrained, ready to be picked up by the Zakuulan authorities.  
It would have been easier to kill them. He would have.

  
Still, anyone who resisted got a blaster shot to the forehead, clean and efficient. Cipher Eight wasn’t squeamish.

  
Something caught his eye to the right and, swinging the rifle around to see what it was, spotted a terrified civilian making a break for it.

  
They must have missed one.

  
He lazily popped off a shot, catching her in the leg.

  
Just for fun, he squeezed off another for her other leg, and then another that went through the side of her head like a hot knife through butter.

Like fish in a barrel.

* * *

  
He had always been a patriot, even if certain people wouldn’t believe it.

Even if sometimes  _he_ didn't believe it.

  
He supposed that was why he began to enjoy watching. Maybe helping out a little.

  
Easing the way.

  
The lying was getting harder.

  
The one thing he would never forget was the feeling of anger when Zakuul had _ruined_ everything. He had finally got where he wanted to be. Finally, after _everything_.

  
He wasn’t _used_ to hating things.

  
One or two people made the list, but they were all dead now. How satisfying it had been to cross those names off.

  
Sitting on his hands while there was work to be done was not his favourite activity.

He could be doing so much _more_.

  
He always _had_ been drawn to the impossible odds.


	32. Follow these rules, and we will get along fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As a show of... support, the Empire has sent us their foremost expert on Force phenomena. I trust you will make him welcome.”

“Temple's haunted.”

  
“What?”

  
Moyiu blurted, baffled. The Mandalorian was currently stuffing more grenades into her pockets than should reasonably fit in a space that size.

  
The Cathar looked up, expression unreadable and her yellow eyes flat.

  
“Temple's haunted.” She grunted, checking her blaster. It was a monster of a gun, seeming too big to be called a pistol. The modifications it bristled with did _not_ look legal. Its twin sat at her other hip.

  
 She holstered it, and busied herself strapping a vicious looking machete to a sheath on her thigh.

Moyiu wanted to ask what the kriff was going on, but she had a lot of work to do. As a Knight, she was supposed to be working with the Republic scientists to find out more about the strange Force phenomena that seemed so prolific on Yavin IV.

  
Yavin IV was an uneasy place to be even without the Empire camping a hundred paces from them, but their presence made everyone on edge. 

  
She felt weird and shaky after getting chewed out by Master V’lante for getting in the way of the drills, and the constant feeling of the Force pressing against her senses wasn’t helping her nerves.

  
And the Mandalorians tended to be... rowdy.

  
The Champion of the Great Hunt wasn’t quite the snarling brute she had expected, but the Cathar was hardly what the Knight was used to.

  
With biceps the size of Moyiu’s head and pushing six three in her socks, the Champion cut an intimidating figure, even out of her armour.

  
In it, she resembled more of a walking tank than a woman, and the jetpack didn’t lessen her bulk.  
She had a flamethrower on her arm.

  
She was, Moyiu had to admit from a purely aesthetic standpoint, still quite nice to look at.

  
Not necessarily in the traditional sense, but she had a strong jawline and a full mouth and her eyes were a pretty shade of feline yellow that looked nice against her fur.

  
The Champion brushed a strand of hair that had escaped the short ponytail she kept it in behind one pointed ear, and shot Moyiu a grin, flashing sharp Cathar teeth.

  
“Don’t worry Jedi,” she chuckled, checking the knuckledusters that hung off her belt. “Me and my team will take care of the beasties. We'll leave the ghosts to you and the Sith.”

  
Moyiu frowned. The Jedi researchers and Republic scientists that were working nearby shot the Champion concerned looks, but the Mandalorian didn’t pay them any mind. She had come to drop off some samples they had put in a request for, and didn’t seem inclined to hang around.

  
“These are not just untethered Force echoes.” Moyiu murmured, nervous. “They’re... Well, they’re something. The- The Wrath says that he _talked_ to one.”

  
She had seen the Wrath a few times around the camp. He looked terrifying. Thankfully, he seemed far too important to notice someone like her. He seemed loud and vicious, and he had _claws_ on his gauntlets. Who _did_ that?

  
The Mandalorian laughed, loud and abrasive.  
“I know.” she grinned. “He told me about it over Pazaak.”

  
Moyiu stared. “You play Pazaak with the Wrath?” She repeated, eyes wide.

  
The other woman shrugged, broad shoulders moving under her armour. She had a nasty looking scar over her brow and eye, and her fur didn’t quite cover it.

  
“Yeah, every week. Sometimes it’s by holo though. He’s decent. He can’t bluff for shit, but he’s got a good eye for when _you’re_ bluffing.”

  
She tilted her head. “His boyfriend is a fuckin' shark though. He near cleaned me out last week. My wallet is thankful that he doesn’t play every time.” She admitted. “Vette is a good laugh, but she cheats.”

  
Moyiu just blinked at her, baffled. The Mandalorian gave a hearty laugh.

  
“Close your mouth, girl. You look like a Nautolan.” She sniggered at her own joke. Moyiu didn’t rise to the bait. Nautolans were _cephlopod_.

  
Ugh.

  
The Champion sauntered off, and Moyiu watched as a short, slip of a girl fell into step with her, showing her something on a holopad. Another Mandalorian that she hadn’t noticed, solid looking young man with sandy hair, joined her other side. The Champion grinned and patted his armour covered behind, and he fondly adjusted the strap holding her grenade bandolier in place.

  
Oh.

  
Well, then.

  
Still rather bewildered, she turned to where their little field research tent was located.

  
Not every Jedi charged in with their lightsaber drawn. Many preferred less... martial disciplines. Moyiu hadn’t drawn her weapon for more than lighting a dark cave in months. She liked the library. Reports and library holocrons didn’t usually try and kill her.

  
The research area was supposed to be a joint effort in the name of cooperation and all the rest, but what had really happened was that the Republic had one half and the Empire had the other half and a lot of arguing happened in the middle.

  
Things were... fraught.

  
The Battlemaster was around somewhere, looking to be in a foul mood and generally terrorising anyone who made the mistake of getting too close. Moyiu had tried to stay out of his way, but hadn’t quite managed it. He was a hero, but Moyiu found him to be quite... abrasive. Still, he didn’t have much time for the library, so she was usually safe from him.

  
His padawan though, she was nice.

  
Moyiu was broken out of her thoughts as a heated discussion broke out among the researchers and scientists she was watching over.

  
“It's your job!”

  
“Cleaning up _goo_ is not my job, get a one of the interns to do it!”

  
“Jedi just don’t like getting their hands dirty!”

  
As the arguing continued, Moyiu wanted to hide. The Imperials were looking murderous, and her fellow Republic researchers were not much better.

  
“P-please, let's all calm down-" she tried, aiming for a disarming smile. From how they ignored her, she didn’t think it had worked.

  
The head of their scientific contingent scowled. “I think you should just leave us to our work. The energy readings need to-"

  
An Imperial scientist, short and thin under his lab coat, gave the man a stare that could only be described as condescending.

  
“The Force ghosts here are to be treated with _care_ and _respect_ -"

  
“Good afternoon.”

  
Moyiu blinked at the interruption, and almost had a heart attack.

  
“Grand Master Shan!” she managed, and hastily fumbled a bow. 

  
Indeed, the Grand Master was before them, standing calm and stately as ever.

  
The bickering researchers were quiet, looking startled. The Imperials looked like their smelled something unpleasant.

  
“Knight Cortesa, how are things progressing?”

  
It took her a moment for Moyiu to realise that Grand Master Shan was talking to her.

  
“O-oh, uh, okay?” she managed, cringing. Jedi didn’t lie. “We are having a few um... difficulties.”

  
“I can see that.” Satele Shan said flatly, casting an eye over the, frankly shambolic, state of their research area.

  
The Grand Master took a breath, seemingly gearing herself up for some news.

  
Everyone waited.

  
“As you all know, we have agreed to join forces to combat the looming threat of Revan and his cult.”

The Grand Master eyed them beadily. “However, this planet is also home to many strange and fascinating Force occurrences, some of which are exceedingly dangerous, and some of which we have never seen before. Darth Marr and I agree that these are to be explored and investigated.” She took a breath, and Moyiu waited with bated breath.

  
“As a show of... support, the Empire has sent us their foremost expert on Force phenomena to head up this division.” Grand Master Shan looked like she was chewing on a Klemon. “I trust you will make him welcome.”

  
There was silence.

  
The Imperials didn’t look much happier with this than the Jedi.

  
Grand Master Shan seemed to exude a special kind of forced calm.

  
“He will arrive in an hour. That is all.”

  
She turned on her heel and walked away without further word, clearly done with the conversation and the blank looks she was getting.

  
Moyiu swallowed painfully.

  
A Sith? She was going to have a Sith as a boss, at least for the time being? 

  
Oh.

  
Oh _no_.

  
The scientists seemed to look at each other, allegiances suddenly irrelevant in the wake of this news.

  
Someone dropped their pen.

  
The noise broke the eerie stillness, and pandemonium erupted as everyone attempted to fix everything all at once.

  
Of course, they even managed to be different in how they worked, and all it caused was more arguments.  
Moyiu, wringing her hands and seconds away from a catastrophic meltdown, all but sprinted for her little corner of her workspace, and began ordering her files.

  
Keep your own house in order before stepping into anyone else’s, she repeated in her head as she tried to ignore the arguing.

  
“We don’t need some crotchety old Sith walking in here and-"

  
“Sith kill you if you look at them wrong, should I close my eyes?!”

  
“If you Republic scum don't-"

  
“Who does the Empire think they are?”

  
Moyiu took less than half the time she thought to get her work organised and pristine, ready for presentation. She shoved her holopad into her pocket, hoping that she would still be alive tomorrow to continue working on it.

  
A shuttle flew overhead, emblazoned with the Imperial symbol. Even their shuttles looked intimidating.

  
Soon after, the sound of many boots on the stone tiles was enough to bring everyone to a halt, as a squad of Imperial troopers formed a corridor of armour, ignoring everyone.

  
The collective tension could be cut with a vibroknife.  
As one, the guards stood to attention, back ramrod straight.

  
Two people approached. One was a slim, short human in the uniform of the Imperial Reclamation Service. He was trailing behind a much more imposing figure.

  
The Sith that headed for them didn’t walk so much as stalk, his black robes serving to make him appear to slink rather than stride. Compared to the rest of the Sith, his appearance was downright plain, but he had such presence that it didn’t seem to matter.

  
His black robes had a high collar and a deep hood which was drawn over his head, exposing little skin to daylight. Gloves hid his hands. A plain cloth blindfold covered his upper face, and Miyou realised with horrified fascination that he was Miraluka. What little skin he showed was snow pale, and scars reached up from the hem of his high collar to curl over his jaw and almost bisect his mouth. They looked like the marks from a collar. Slave brands.  
His presence in the Force was unlike anything she had ever felt. She had thought the Wrath's presence, searing and explosive even at distance, was unnerving.

  
This Sith had a presence that felt so heavy, she felt her breath fall short.

  
It was so dense and dark, it was like being at the bottom of a inky lake, pressure and shadow pressing against her senses. He tingled like the charged air before a storm, and  everything  seemed a little darker in his presence. Shadows were a little longer, the sky was a little closer to dusk, and even the lights burned a little less brightly.

  
She swallowed, terrified.

  
The head of the Imperial researchers stepped forward, sporting an impressive backbone and a surprised expression.

  
“Dark Lord,” he greeted, bowing low. He sounded reverent.

  
The Sith all but ignored him.

  
“I am Darth Nox, Head of the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge.” he spoke, and while he didn’t raise his voice, the words carried anyway. He had a deep voice, smooth and with an Imperial accent.

  
That seemed so odd to hear on an alien. Moyiu felt a strange sense of betrayal.

  
Everyone was rapt in attention.

  
“We on the Dark Council expect results,” he said, tone neutral. That eyeless face was impossible to read. “And we will obtain them.”

  
He seemed to survey each of them in turn, and being under that attention was like being in a cage with a hungry rancor.

  
A Dark Councillor? _Here?_

  
She was mere feet away from one of the twelve most powerful Sith in the galaxy, and he was _looking at her oh Force why was he looking right at her-_

  
“You, Jedi.” He snapped, and Moyiu glanced around her, hoping he meant anyone else.

  
“The Zabrak who is trying to hide Specialist Jorn, yes _you_.”

  
Her head was swimming. She felt like she was about to faint.

  
“Yes?” she managed, stepping out from the bulk of the frozen Imperial she had been taking refuge behind.

  
Wait, was she supposed to use a title?! Did he expect her to bow? On any other day they would be trying to kill each other, but did this ceasefire mean she had to play the game?

  
She was not thinking about how he could swat her like a fly. Nope, not at all.

  
“I require a full report of all current projects. Status, actions and project lead.”

  
Floored, she made to speak up but he had already moved his attention elsewhere. 

  
He wanted her to do _what?_

  
“I want this mess cleared up, and I want each section organised!” he snapped, his words coming out as orders that everyone jumped to obey.

  
“I want reports, documentation, status updates and if you haven’t already, implement your version control.” He barked, gesturing. 

  
People, Republic and Imperial alike, jumped to heed him.

  
“Set up a briefing area, I want each project lead and their delegate in a team meeting every morning at 0800, do I make myself clear?”

  
Hurried, frantic nodding.

  
The Sith stood tall and folded his arms. He seemed to be less than impressed.

  
“I expect the following from each and every one of you.” He began, tone brooking no arguments.

  
Moyiu shuddered. As if anyone would _dare_ argue.

  
“Firstly; accept nothing less than perfection.” He said sternly. “I will not accept shoddy, half done work. Either give me your perfection, or do not give me anything at all.”

  
“Second; you are a team. Never compete within your team. I do not suffer loose cannons.” He said sharply, and Moyiu wondered how he could convey such a feeling of watchfulness when he was blind.

  
“Thirdly,” he began, and he had the slightest hint of a crooked smile on his face. “If a Force ghost offer you unlimited power, say no.”

  
He nodded to the man by his side, who gave them a cheery smile and an awkward little wave as though he wasn’t standing next to the living personification of a nightmare.

  
“This is Lieutenant Drellik. He will be your coordinator.” The Sith said flatly. “I expect your best, and nothing less.”

  
He paused, looking at them as if from a great height.   
There was a twitch of his lips that Moyiu still wasn’t sure wasn’t a trick of the light.

  
“Follow these rules, and we will get along fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't die, but I did get so busy with work that I didn't have any time to write!
> 
> Nox brings style, practicality and a dictatorial approach to project work.
> 
> Those oxfrod style references had better be on fucking point.


	33. It may not be worth anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mal? Why didn't they want me?"

It wasn’t often that Malavai was surprised by his Lord any more.

  
That had, after all, known each other for a long time. A large portion of that time had been as lovers, something he could still barely believe.

  
Ven’fir was not a complicated man, and Malavai appreciated that. His life was complicated enough, and a partner that added to the mess wasn’t something he would have accepted.

  
He smiled when he was happy, he laughed when he was cheerful, he snarled when he was angry and he cried when he was upset.

  
Malavai hadn’t seen him for a while, which wasn’t unusual. He didn’t think anything of it.

  
Despite much evidence to the contrary, Ven’fir was an adult and could look after himself. He was likely either training or finishing off some work left over from the Yavin debacle, meaning Malavai was happy not to bother him.

  
His mind was busy with professional thoughts as he took care if various bits of business around the ship.

  
Tired and finally done with his shift, he yawned as he headed back to the Ven's quarters for some sleep and hopefully a cuddle.

  
As he opened the door, he was stuck by the sound of _crying_.

  
It wasn’t loud, but the soft noises made his stomach lurch.

  
He stepped in, closing the door behind him. His heartbeat was loud in his ears. Something like a cousin to panic made his nerves tingle.

  
Ven’fir sat on the bed, sitting cross legged with a holopad in front of him. He wasn’t dressed in armour, and his cheeks were wet.

  
He looked up as Malavai entered, and the human felt his heart clench. The look on his face was so lost, so full of abject hurt, that Malavai didn’t even stop to ask.

  
He crossed to the bed and sat down, opening his arms and letting the younger man curl into his side.  
Ven’fir clung to him like he was a lifeline, and Malavai wondered how long he had been sitting there, tossing his hurt around his head.

  
The Sith cried into his shoulder, sobs wracking his body hard enough to made his shoulders shake.  
Malavai tightened his grip on the man in his arms, occasionally running his fingers through dark curls. He didn’t say anything, but he held him close.

  
Eventually the sobs died down and Ven’fir just held onto him, seemingly needing the comfort of someone just being there.

  
Malavai didn’t prod him. He would talk when he wanted to.

  
“I got a message,” Ven’fir whispered, one hand curling into the thick fabric of Malavai's uniform jacket.

  
“You don’t need to tell me,” Malavai assured, keeping his voice soft. He was awkward and absolutely _terrible_ at this sort of thing, but he needed Ven’fir to know that he wasn’t obligated to tell Malavai anything he wasn’t comfortable with.

  
He felt the Sith shake his head, nose still buried in the crook of his neck.

  
“I need to.” He breathed, and the words tickled Malavai's skin.

  
He sounded so small, and it was so different from the brash figure that filled the ship with whatever mood he was in that Malavai felt a desperate need to fix whatever it was making him that way.

  
Using the arm that wasn’t wrapped around his lover, he picked up the holopad.

  
The surface was a little grubby and there was a small nick in the bottom left corner. Definitely Ven’fir's personal one. When he brought it out of sleep, little spots of pixelated rainbow lit up, and he realised that the surface had a few drops of water on it. 

  
The intrusive thought that it was probably tears ran through his mind.

  
He unlocked the holopad, and looked down at what was on the screen. A holomail, from an address he didn’t recognise.

  
He started to read, giving the man at his side a small squeeze of reassurance.

  
He read it carefully, taking in every word. As he reached the end, he very carefully switched off the holopad, and set it aside with perfectly forced calm.

  
He wanted to _hurt_ Satele Shan.

  
Ven’fir pulled away, and looked very young and very lost, sitting there cross legged on his big bed, tear tracks drying of his cheeks.

  
The Sith glanced up, amber eyes hurt and shining with tears. It was hars to meet his gaze.

  
“Mal?” he asked, his voice so unsure it didn’t sound like him any more.

  
Malavai didn’t know what to say.

  
“Why didn’t they want me?” Ven’fir asked imploringly, voice tiny. His fingers tangled in the rumpled sheets, awkward and nervous.

  
Malavai felt his heart break.

  
“What- what was wrong with me? To make them- do you think they could sense the Dark Side in me even then?” The young Sith asked, not even seeming to expect an answer any more. “Was that why-“

  
He cut himself off, screwing his eyes shut and blinking away tears.

  
Malavai _didn’t know what to kriffing say-_

  
“She says that- that they want to meet me.” He said quietly.

  
Malavai remembered that part. It had been right after the Grand Master had talked about ‘making the hard choice and telling two of her most trusted Jedi about their son’.

  
Banthashit.

  
Making the hard choice? More like spreading information that wasn’t hers to tell.

  
Malavai tilted head.

  
“Do you want to meet them?”

  
Ven’fir looked considering for a moment, the light shining dully off his cybernetic arm.

  
“I don’t know.” He whispered, guilty. He glanced up to look Malavai in the eyes, and the effect was intense.

   
“They're _Jedi_.”

  
Malavai, ignoring the roil of emotion inside himself, took a breath. This wasn’t his place to voice opinion.

  
“They are. I can’t tell you what to do, and I wouldn’t want to.” He murmured. “But I’ll be there if you want me to be.”

  
His lover looked at him like he had promised him a great gift.

  
“Will you?”

  
Malavai frowned. “Of course.” He assured, trying not to sound too indignant. “And I’ll shoot Satele Shan while I’m there.”

  
Ven’fir gave a tiny laugh that seemed to surprise him.  
His expression sobered again.

  
“I just... I want- I don’t know what I want.” He murmured; eyes downcast. 

  
“I’m not leaving the Empire.” He said suddenly. “This is my home, and they’re not taking that from me. I’m Sith. I’m not ashamed.”

  
He sighed, and fiddled with the creases in the sheets.

“It might not be worth anything, but I do want to meet them.” He looked away, hurt on his face. “I just need to know why I wasn’t good enough.”

  
Malavai sighed, and reached out to brush a stray curl from Ven’fir’s eyes. He leaned in and, keeping a guiding hand on the other man’s jaw, kissed him.

  
Ven’fir kissed back, melting into it like he had needed to be kissed since he got the message.

  
It was warm and sweet, and Malavai needed Ven’fir to know that he wasn’t going anywhere.

  
He pulled back, eyes following how the younger man was watching his mouth as he did so.

  
“You’ve always been good enough.” He said, surprising himself at how fierce his voice sounded. He didn’t often get so passionate about things. 

  
“You were a _baby_.” he stressed, feeling bleeding into his words. He was angry. “No child is ever ‘ _not good enough'._ ”

  
He wished someone had said those words to him, a long time ago.

  
Malavai tried for a small smile. “Just think though, you would have made a terrible Jedi.”

  
That startled a laugh out of Ven’fir, and he smiled.

  
“That’s true. I’d have been kicked out by now.” His eyes, amber and ringed with the colour of molten glass, turned soft. “And I wouldn’t have met you.”

  
Malavai felt his cheeks heat up. Damn his pale skin.

  
“Some might say that would be a good thing,” he murmured, awkward.

  
Ven’fir shook his head. “They wouldn’t know what they’re talking about. I love you, and I can’t imagine ever stopping."

  
Malavai felt affection, thick and warm, wrap itself around each rib and squeeze. 

  
He reached for his lovers’ hand, and held it tightly. Ven’fir squeezed back.

  
“You mean the galaxy to me,” the Sith whispered.

  
Malavai really didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just kissed him again, feeling Ven’fir smile into it and pull him closer.

  
He ended up half in the Sith’s lap, pressed close as they traded soft kisses.

  
“I love you,” he managed in between kisses, “I really will shoot Satele Shan if you want me to.”

  
Ven’fir gave a breathless laugh, and pulled him close for an embrace.

  
As they held each other, revelling in warmth and affection, Malavai knew he was in this to the end, wherever that may be.

  
And if that end featured Satele Shan with a bullet in her meddling mind, that was all the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> I don't hate Satele, I'm just a bit disappointed in her after her choice to go into seclusion rather than help in the war with Zakuul. I understand her reluctance to fight again, but she could have served in any number of roles that would have helped, and would not have meant she had to direct troops. Instead, she ran off to mediate alone in a forest.
> 
> Of course, this is written from Malavai's POV, and he feels a bit more strongly on the issue.
> 
> Ven'fir was not expecting to be confronted with something he has tried very hard to forget or play off, and it's struck him deeply.
> 
> Poor lad.


	34. Never again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ziost, it was all Ven’fir could do not to break down in front of his crew.

After day eight, Vette decided that she didn’t know what to do any more.

  
There was something _wrong_ with Ven’fir.

  
Ziost had been awful, and she hadn’t even been planet side.

  
She had watched, completely powerless and unable to do more than press a hand to the plexiglass of the orbital station's windows. The other hand gripped Jaesa's so hard she thought she might hurt the human woman.

  
Jaesa squeezed back.

  
Every few days, Ven’fir and Pierce would return, streaked with ash and with haunted eyes. Quinn tried to go with them, but Ven’fir had shaken his head, and pleaded.

  
“I can’t let him get to you too,” he had whispered, words not meant for anyone else to hear. “Please, _stay_.”

  
She tried to smile for Pierce, but the burly human just brushed her off, brooding and manic in his desire to return to the chaos that was his home planet.

  
It had come when they had been just about to return.

The shuttle was fuelled and ready, and Ven’fir was tiredly checking his gauntlets as he waited for the signal to depart again.

  
He looked terrible.

  
His green skin was sallow and ashen, his eyes dull with fatigue and hurt. The bags under his eyes made him look almost gaunt.

  
His lip was split and it lent him a mean look that didn’t really suit his face, his shoulders slumped but tense.

  
He only seemed to find solace in Quinn, who sat with him in a secluded area of the station when he found the time.

  
The station was not large and was already swollen with refugees, and living quarters were hard to come by. Vette slept on the Fury, but Ven’fir had insisted he wanted to be on the station itself, in case he was needed. Pierce had stubbornly accompanied him for the same reason.

  
She did what she could.

  
She ran supplies, she handed out blankets and insta-meals and called every contact that would still speak to her to arrange medicine and bedding to be delivered.

  
Vette had been sorting bandages for Quinn, who had ended up directing the medics on the station. Most of the on-call staff had been sent to the surface days ago. They had not returned.

  
He was a field medic and not a surgeon, but he sewed wounds and did everything he could for whoever was put in front of him. He barked orders and tried to keep everyone so efficiently busy that there was no time for panic.

  
Even Pierce couldn’t find the effort to mock him when he saw the Captain, shirtsleeves rolled up and smeared with blood to his elbows, tiredly taking a drink from a lukewarm canteen before he saw another patient.

  
Jaesa pitched in as much as she could, and her healing techniques stabilized and calmed those that ended up in front of her.

  
Some people shied away from the young woman in Sith robes, her eyes flecked with gold and her ‘saber hanging from her belt, but she met them with a warm smile and forceful hands, and no one dared argue with her.

  
Vette had just been finishing up with her piles of bandages when the lights flickered.

  
She looked up, and saw people in the hangar doing the same.

  
There was a low murmur of voices.

  
It happened again.

  
The station shuddered and groaned, and Vette's pile of bandages skittered away across the floor.

  
A few people cried out in fear, and Vette felt her stomach lurch. 

  
What was happening?

  
People were looking towards the huge plexiglass window, their faces open and frightened. They were seeing something.

  
Vette's hands shook, and she stood up to see what they were watching.

  
Quinn stood next to her; his hands stilled half way through wiping the blood off them. He looked exhausted and too pale, shadows around his eyes and his stubble getting a little rough.

  
Ven’fir was at the glass, close enough to touch it.

One hand was raised as though he wanted to.

  
Something was happening to the planet below.

  
Something was spreading like black mould, like a sickness that covered the planet.

  
There were no words to describe the horror that permeated her body as she watched, not knowing what was happening but understanding that it was wrong in a way she couldn’t describe.

  
The station was silent as the infection, phenomena, _whatever it was_ , ravaged the planet below.

  
Jaesa was shaking.

  
Pierce was ashen, his eyes wide and still.

  
Ven’fir's legs buckled from under him.

  
The sound made her jump, and she saw the Sith kneeling on the floor, one hand brought up to his head and shaking like he was injured.

  
She ran to him, ignoring how Quinn and Jaesa did the same.

  
“Ven,” she gasped, setting her hands on his armoured shoulders. He didn’t seem to notice her.

  
“I can _feel_ them,” he whispered, choked. “I can _feel_ them being _snuffed out_.”

  
Jaesa looked pained, her own expression pinched. “Oh, _master_.” She breathed. 

  
“What’s wrong with him?” Quinn demanded, his own blue eyes petrified under the tired lines and shadows.

  
“We... Force users can sense Force signatures. Life.” She whispered, pained. “He is particularly sensitive. I... he felt whatever happened down there.”

  
Ven’fir shook, and Quinn knelt beside him and brushed his hair from his eyes. “My lord?” he asked, worried. “Ven, please.”

  
The Sith looked up, and his expression was shell shocked.

  
Around them, noise was beginning to raise into a cacophony, with people shouting and panicking as they desperately tried to get a signal from Ziost.

  
“Mal?” he managed, voice a dry whisper. His eyes were far away, unfocused and hurt.

  
“I’m here,” the Captain assured, keeping his hands on the other man. “I’m here.”

  
Ven’fir gradually began to refocus, painfully pulling back to the present. “Oh Force,” he whimpered. “It’s gone. I _can’t feel them_.”

  
Vette was lost. She didn’t know how to help.

  
Jaesa reached out and rested her hands on his bigger ones, paying no heed to his gauntlets.

“Master, focus on us.” She said firmly.

  
“I- Jaesa?”

  
“Yes, I’m here.” She murmured, squeezing his hand. “Focus on us, master.”

  
He closed his eyes and seemed to force himself calmer, leaning into where Quinn knelt beside him and keeping Jaesa’s delicate hand in his own. 

  
When he opened his eyes again, they were clearer, if no less full of hurt.

  
“I- thank you.” He murmured, shaken. “I couldn’t _think_ -"

  
“It's okay, master.” Jaesa assured, smiling wanly. “That kind of backlash could have seriously hurt you.”

  
Vette was looking out of the window.

  
Ziost had never been the most vibrant planet to see from orbit, it was no Alderaan or Rishi, but the uniform greyness beneath them was eerie and made her feel ill looking at it.

  
She didn’t know what had happened, but it left her feeling empty and sick.

  
She was brought back to the present as Quinn helped Ven’fir up. The Sith was unsteady on his feet, and he kept lapsing into unfocus, but he was up.

  
“I... I have to get down there.” He muttered, leaning on Quinn, who shook his head.

  
“No, we don’t know what it’s like planetside.” He argued, concerned. “It could be a trap.”

  
Ven’fir shook his head. “I have to see if there are survivors.” He whispered, and turned his gaze onto the Captain. “I _have_ to.”

  
“Then I’m coming with you,” he said firmly. “If there are survivors, they will need medical attention.”

  
Ven’fir looked about ready to argue, but Jaesa stepped in.

  
“I will take care of the wounded here,” she assured. “I can manage for a few hours. Vette will help me.” 

  
Vette nodded immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

It felt selfish, but she really didn't want to go down there.

Ven’fir seemed to accept this, and nodded. He looked so drained she was surprised he didn’t fall over again.

  
“If Pierce wants to come down, let him.” He said tiredly. “It's his homeworld. I... I can’t imagine how he must feel, but its only right if he wants to come with us.”

  
Captain Quinn nodded, solemn.

  
Vette couldn’t tear her eyes away from the lifeless grey thing that had once been a thriving planet.

* * *

On day eight, Vette had had enough.

  
They had left Ziost after two days, realising that there was nothing more they could do.

  
Ven’fir was numb.

  
He didn’t talk, he barely ate, and his time was spent either training until he could barely move, or in deep meditation that looked like it hurt.

  
Quinn was little better, although that was because he was trying to divide his time between his extensive duties and taking care of their wayward Sith.

  
Vette had tried everything.

  
She had tried to talk to Ven’fir about it, and had been met with a tired smile and a polite brush off.

  
She had tried shouting at him, beating it into his head that he had done all he could. He had snapped at her, and left her standing alone in the engine room, shaken and guilty.

  
There was a deep hurt in him, something awful that she couldn’t shift.

  
There was rage, too.

  
Pure, unfiltered hatred towards the Sith Emperor, a being that Ven’fir had once been only too happy to serve.

  
He was the Wrath. He had served _gladly_. It had been an honour to do so.

  
Now, he seemed hollow.

  
So, Vette had decided to do something reckless.

  
She had all but demanded they stop on Dromund Kaas for a day or two of downtime, and Ven’fir had agreed, deciding Pierce deserved a chance to see the family he had on the planet.

  
She had made some arrangements, called in any favours she could, and told a few white lies.

  
Everything had come together remarkably easily once Quinn had got wind of her plan and lent a hand.

  
The man made the massive gears of Imperial bureaucracy dance under his skilled fingers, and soon things looked almost ready.

  
Vette didn’t know how he did it.

  
They trudged through the streets of Kaas City, and the mood of the city was dire.

  
Imperials were never the happiest bunch anyway, but Vette thought that even their strange fervour was missing. It was weird, but she almost missed the old Dromund Kaas, full of duty and pride.

  
Ziost had _hurt_ the Empire.

  
“Ven?” she piped up, and he turned tired eyes on her. “I want to go somewhere. Come with me?”

  
He frowned slightly. “You can go wherever you like, Vette.” He said slowly, “You don’t need me to accompany you.”

  
“I know,” she assured. “But please, I want to show you something.”

  
He looked baffled, probably wondering what on Dromund Kaas _she_ could show _him_.

  
Quinn followed, a slender shadow behind his Lord.

  
Vette led them towards the Nexus room, which was the only place big enough that she could acquire at such short notice.

  
She suspected that she shouldn’t have even been able to get that, but Quinn had just smiled and told her that he would handle it.

  
She hadn’t argued.

  
There were several private rooms, some bigger than others. She led them to one, and gave Ven’fir a small smile.

  
“Go in.” She urged, and felt her smile widen as he looked confused.

  
“Vette, what-"

  
“My lord?” Quinn interrupted gently. “Please, go in.”

  
Ven’fir pinned the Captain with look as he realised that the human was also in on this, and tiredly pushed open the door.

  
As he entered, an imposing figure in black armour and with a Sith's aura, the crowd inside went quiet.

  
There were people of all kinds inside, almost too many for the room to hold.

  
Labourers in worn clothing and with tired eyes, office workers with neat hair and cuts on their hands, a few military personnel identified by their straight backs and grim faces.

  
Old, young, and everyone in between. Children were held by their parents, and gaunt teenagers stared as they stood close to their families, not even pretending they didn’t need the comfort.

  
There were even a few aliens, although they were few and far between.

  
Ven’fir's eyes were wide, and he looked surprised and confused.

  
Vette smiled to herself, and nudged Quinn with an elbow. He frowned, gave her a look that was probably annoyance, and then softened. There was something approving in his eyes.

  
“Darth Venator?”

  
A pureblood woman stepped forward, a small child clinging to her hip.

  
“I’m Marial Bennin, my lord.” She introduced, her face tired and lined. She bowed, short and efficient. “You don’t remember us, do you?”

  
Ven’fir shook his head, still quite startled. “I- no. I don’t.” He murmured, but she just nodded.

  
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” She admitted. “We remember you, though.”

  
She wrapped an arm around the child at her side.  
“You put us on a shuttle in New Adasta.”

  
Ven’fir's eyes were wide, and he didn’t seem to know what to say.

  
“And me, my lord.” Someone else piped up, a young man with a bandage around one eye. “You saved my parents too.”

  
“I thought I was going to die.”

  
“My wife didn’t make it, but my children did. You put them on the last shuttle out.”

  
“You evacuated us, and we managed to escape.”

  
“I saw your broadcast.”

  
“I lost everything, but I’m alive.”

  
“I didn’t think a Sith would care enough to save anyone.”

  
“My mother and father didn’t make it out, but I got my sisters with me because of you.”

  
Ven’fir looked like he was about to cry, but he kept his emotions in check. Quinn stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder, polite and formal as he had to be in front of others.

  
Merial Bennin smiled, sad and tired. “We wanted to say thank you.” She murmured. “You had to cut down my husband, but it saved me and my son.”

  
“I’m sorry,” Ven’fir managed, choked. “I didn’t-“

  
She shook her head.

  
“You saved everyone here, and more besides.” She shivered. “I saw what it was like before you came. I... I don’t think half the people would have made it if not for you.”

  
She smiled, and held her son close.

  
“ _Thank you_.”

  
Ven’fir was wide eyed and knocked for six.

  
People began coming up to him, bowing and asking to shake his hand.

  
They talked to him, thanking him and looking at him like he was a something to be _worshiped_.

  
“You did a good thing, here.” Quinn murmured to her, making her jump.

  
They had both stood back to allow the crowd their moment with Ven’fir, and Quinn was leaning down to talk softly into her ear.

  
“Thank you.” he said quietly.

  
She felt her cheeks heat up. She wasn’t used to honest compliments. “I just wanted to help.” She whispered back.

  
He offered a small smile, weary and pleased. “Well, you’ve done that.” He replied, eyes on the Sith who was looking rather overwhelmed. He was smiling though, as one of the elderly women asked very politely if she could give him a hug.

  
An _Imperial_ was asking a _Darth_ if she could have a hug. It was unheard of.

  
He gave her a little smile and let her, and the little old woman was delighted.

  
Vette smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Ziost, Ven'fir felt quite lost. Who was he, if not the Wrath? How could he serve the person who had done all this?
> 
> Later, he decides that it's time to tweak his title.
> 
> He is no longer the Emperor's Wrath, he is the Empire's Wrath, and he will not forget what he is fighting for.


	35. On the other side of the street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Vette, Risha hadn’t changed a bit.
> 
> To Risha, she could barely recognise the girl she knew.

“Captain?”

  
Ija Telanri glanced up from her holopad, where a much-read copy of _Warm Hearts, Cold Space 4: Terror on the Golden Moon_ was displayed. The Twi'lek yawned and smiled at Risha, who had spoken.

  
“Yeah?” She waved her hand for Risha to continue as she yawned.

  
“Do you remember when I told you about a friend of mine, from when I was young? A Twi'lek, my age, who ended up on Nok Drayen's ship.”

  
Ija frowned.

  
“Uh, kinda? Yeah, I remember you saying that you had lost contact with her.”

  
Risha looked uncomfortable, which was not a common occurrence. Ija wasn’t sure the woman ever looked anything less than perfectly poised, but now she seemed almost fidgety.

  
“Risha?” Ija prompted, getting her feet off the table and stowing her holopad. “What's wrong?”

  
“Captain, I _found_ her.”

  
Ija blinked. “Oh. Isn’t that a good thing?”

  
Risha sighed, coming to sit next to her Captain. She even made that look elegant.

  
“It should be.” She admitted. “I did a bit of digging and tracked her down. It took a lot of work,” she murmured. “She hasn’t been idle. She worked freelance for a long time, then she seems to have joined up with a group of Twi'lek thieves, then she... she drops off the map suddenly a few years ago. I initially thought she was dead.”

  
She paused, and Ija didn’t interrupt. Risha sounded clinical, but Ija had known her for long enough to see that it had hurt.

  
“She resurfaced again, a few months later. She’s been spotted in the company of the Empire.”

  
“Oh.”

  
Ija was beginning to see the problem.

  
“Do you think she’s a prisoner?” she asked, frowning.

Twi'lek’s, especially women, did not have a good time in captivity. She had personally never been a slave, and she had no intention of ever having the pleasure.

  
Risha looked conflicted. “How could she not be?” she asked, but Ija had known her for long enough to know that Risha had most certainly considered the possibility that her childhood friend had thrown in with the Empire.

  
The other woman shook her head, arriving at a conclusion. “Vette was very anti-authority. I doubt that has changed.”

  
She met Ija's gaze.

  
“Even if she is there willingly, I can’t let her get hurt. Not if I can help it. She... she deserves better.”

  
Ija was quiet for a moment, thinking.

  
“Okay.”

  
Risha blinked, looking up. “Captain-"

  
Ija gave her a grin.

  
“Whack that shit in the nav-computer and let’s go. I want to hear stories about awkward teenage Risha."

She teased, and the other woman rolled her eyes, smiling. 

  
“You’re the worst,” she assured, standing up with a fond look on her pretty face. She paused.

  
“Thank you.”

* * *

It had been surprisingly easy to find Vette.

  
A few well-placed holocalls, a bribe or two and a lie or five, and they had Vette's location.

  
She was on Nar Shadaa.

  
Of course she was.

  
Reports had her in the company of a young woman with dark hair, but no-one seemed to know her.

  
She wasn’t important.

  
Ija yawned as she munched on her third packet of BBQ Algae-Pufffffs, watching the from the speeder they were camped in.

  
“There she is,” she gestured with flavour-dust coated fingers. “Has she changed much?”

  
Risha looked pained. Ija couldn’t tell of that was because of the topic of conversation, or Ija's manners.

  
The human woman had a faraway look in her eyes as she watched the young Twi’lek move from stall to stall, sampling the market.

  
She had finally ventured out alone, so they had decided that it was the best time to speak to her without potential guard dogs around. Besides, if she really had thrown in with the Empire, Ija didn’t want to poke them more than she had to.

  
“A little,” came the reply as Risha kept her eyes on her former friend. “She seems... more careful. Older.”

  
“Strange, that.” Ija drawled, amused. “Almost like it’s been actual decades since you last saw her.”

  
Risha gave her a look, flat and unimpressed.  
“Funny, Captain.”

  
Ija shrugged, chuckling. “Hey, you left yourself wide open for that one.”

  
The auburn-haired woman just rolled her eyes and went back to staring.

  
“I wish I hadn’t left her.” She said suddenly, and Ija blinked at the sudden change in atmosphere.

  
Risha looked sad as she watched the young Twi'lek haggle over the price of spices at a stall.

  
“At the time, I didn’t think of it as much as I should have.” She murmured, and Ija stayed quiet. Risha needed to say this, she sensed. “Later on, I missed her. By the time I thought about it, she was gone.”

  
Ija sighed. “You were young.” She said quietly. “I’m not saying that to excuse it, but you can make up for it now, yeah?”

  
Risha glanced at her, and nodded. 

  
“Yes, I can.”

* * *

Vette wasn’t an idiot.

  
Whoever was following her was doing a decent job, but not decent enough.

  
There were two of them, so they had the advantage of numbers.

  
She certainly wasn’t going to make anything easy though, no sir.

  
She ducked past stalls and behind vendors, through alleyways and into crowds.

  
They caught her eventually, of course.

  
They had her backed into a alleyway that she had been sure wasn’t a dead end. This wasn’t one of the busy streets anymore. They had chased her into a quieter area, all dirty wallls and a particular brand of graffiti. This wasn’t a sleazy yet charming marketplace, this was a _territory_.

  
She turned, ready to fight or run. Probably just enough of the first to make an opening to do the latter.

  
“Vette!”  One of the shadowy figures called, which didn’t make her feel better in the slightest.

  
She bared her teeth, fingering the holocommunicator at her belt.

  
“Who are you?” she called, pistols drawn. “If I owe you money, you can fuck off.”

  
The figure who had spoken, the taller of the two, stepped forward.

  
“It's me, Vette.” She smiled, a little awkward and clearly expecting to be recognized. She was familiar.

  
Vette blinked.

  
“Who're you?”

  
The other woman, a Twi'lek with pretty yellow skin and a curvaceous figure, raised her eyebrows.

  
“Uh, Risha?” she asked the redhead, who was taken aback.

  
Vette felt her jaw drop. “Wait, Risha? Like, _Risha_ Risha?”

  
The Twi’lek shrugged, amused. “That’s her name.”

  
Vette stared because seriously, _what_.

  
“You are _shitting_ me.” She said flatly, the aim on her pistols dipping slightly.

  
Risha took another step forward. “No, it's me.” She murmured, before she smiled.

  
She was still as beautiful and glamorous as ever. She was effortlessly gorgeous still, and Vette had forgot  what a presence she was.

  
Vette had not been expecting this when she woke up this morning.

  
She lowered her weapons.

  
“I... Is that really you?” she asked, hating how tiny her voice sounded.

  
The human woman nodded, her coiffed hair perfect as she stood confident among the filth.

  
It was her.

  
Vette was hugging her before she realised that she was doing it.

  
Vette hasn’t thought about Risha for a long time.

  
She had been one of the most important people in Vette's life at one point. They had been inseparable, and Vette had looked up to the older girl in awe and wonder. She was clever, quick, charismatic and beautiful. She was everything that Vette wanted to be and she had everything that Vette wanted to have.

  
And then she left, and Vette was on her own again.

  
She felt Risha return the hug, and let herself relish it for a long moment.

  
Vette pulled away first, and studied the other woman.

  
“Now I can see you better, you haven’t changed.” She murmured, “You wear your hair different now, though.”

  
The Twi'lek beside them grinned. “Aww, that was cute.” She cooed, “Risha, you do have a heart!”

  
Risha levelled a frosty look at the other woman, but Vette’s dusty memories told her that it was fond.  
Vette frowned, tilting her head.

  
“Who are you?” she asked bluntly. She didn’t think being around Ven’fir had done any wonders for her tact.

  
The Twi’lek gave her a smile, her crimson painted lips pulling into something sly.

  
“Captain Ija Telanri,” she introduced. “Me and Risha are... business partners.”

  
Vette raised an eyebrow.

  
“So, what then? Pirate? Dissident? Smuggler? Spy?”

  
Captain Telanri gave a laugh, waving her hand. Her fingernails were painted.

  
“Oh, I’m all legal, darling.” She said with a catlike grin. “I’m in... logistics. Cargo, freight, courier runs, I handle it all. Best damn pilot in the galaxy.”

  
Vette wondered how Quinn would fare against her. He was a pilot, and a good one, but he wasn’t much of a daredevil unless he really had to be. She remembered a time when they had ended up in a dogfight with two Republic frigates, and the Captain had pulled a manoeuvre that had Vette struggling not to be sick and Pierce bellowing about hitting his head.

  
“Smuggler, then.” She shrugged. “Nice.”

  
Captain Telanri looked a little put out by her disinterest, but Vette was hardly going to be awestruck by a _smuggler_.

  
Risha shook her head. She had a rifle strapped over one shoulder, and she wore a toolbelt like it was high fashion.

  
“I... I had been looking for you.” She admitted, a little awkward. “I... It's been a long time, but I felt like I needed to.”

  
Vette swallowed, and it was painful. “You left.” She said quietly. “You didn’t even leave a note. I came back from the market that day we docked in Nar Shadaa and... you and everyone else were gone.”

  
Risha looked pained. “I know. I’m sorry.” She said simply, and Vette stared.

  
Risha did not apologise.

  
Except now she apparently did.

  
Captain Telanri blew out a breath through pursed lips.

  
“Now there is something I’ve never heard before,” she commented. “Risha apologising? What is the galaxy coming to?”

  
Or maybe it wasn’t a regular occurrence after all.

  
Risha threw the woman a nasty glare, but it had no heat behind it.

  
Vette didn’t know what she wanted to do.

  
She wanted to hug Risha again, and she wanted to hit her.

  
She wanted Telanri to leave them alone together, and she wanted Ven here.

  
Risha seemed to study her.

  
“I would like to go somewhere to catch up,” she offered. “I... missed you.”

  
Vette felt something heavy and ticklish and warm in her belly.

  
“I missed you too.” She said carefully. It wasn’t a lie. She had missed Risha something fierce, but... it had been a long time.

  
“I need to check in with my crew first, though.” She warned. “I was supposed to he back half an hour ago and they’ll definitely have noticed.”

  
Or rather, Quinn would have.

  
Something changed in their expressions, and Vette didn’t like it.

  
“What?” She asked, frowning.

  
Telanri’s blue eyes were searching. “Risha told you she had been looking for you.” She began, “But we didn’t know about a crew.”

  
Vette shrugged. “They’re alright. Weird, but alright.”

  
Risha and Telanri exchanged looks and Vette was getting a little sick of being out of the loop.

  
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, she blinked. Okay, that was a strange noise.

The quiet hum of activity was being drowned out by a kind of soft roar that seemed to be getting louder.

  
“Does anyone else hear that?” she asked, as the low rumble of a souped up speeder bikes turned into a scream.

  
Captain Telanri cursed, reaching for her blaster pistol. “Kriff.” She swore, biting. “What do we want to bet on them being here for something other than us?”

  
Risha checked her rifle, expression hard. “Slim.” She muttered.

  
Vette stared. “Okay, what the _kriff_.” 

  
She gripped her pistols until her hands hurt. “Who did you piss off?”

  
Telanri was peering around the corner, quickly retreating as a the noise got exponentially louder.

  
“Don’t think we have time for a full list,” she grunted. “Could be anyone from the Hutts to the Imperials.”  
Vette frowned.

  
“Imperials?”

  
Telanri snorted, checking her sights. “Fucking fascists.” She grunted, peeking out. “Looks like Black Sun. Definitely here for us, then.”

  
Vette wondered how exactly this was her life. One minute she had been happily shopping for a birthday present for Quinn, and had found some wonderfully horrendous options, and the next her missing childhood friend pops up with an outlaw partner and the Black Suns in tow.

  
The Nar Shaddaa chapter was, by all accounts, especially territorial, considering the incursions by both the Republic and the Empire.

  
So, the bounty on the head of an infamous outlaw Captain was entirely too much to resist.

  
The swoop bikes screamed as they neared them, their engines reverberating off the permacrete walls and corrugated shipping containers.

  
The sound worked into her head and made it throb painfully, and her heart thudded against her ribs. It was an intimidation tactic, she knew. Few things got people as frightened as loud noises coming closer, from any direction.

  
Still, knowing that wasn’t enough to mitigate the effects.

  
They kept hidden and quiet as the bikes came to a agonising halt in front of the alleyway they were pinned in.

  
Boots on permacrete sounded louder than they should have.

  
“Voidhound!” One of the Black Suns called, her voice modulated and threatening. “You're practically a celebrity.”

  
Captain Telanri huffed. “What do you want, an autograph?” she called back, adjusting her bandolier.  
The gangster laughed, and drummed her fingers on her gun. Vette could hear it.

  
“Nah, I’ll take the pile of credits on your head, though.”

  
Telanri scowled. “Better people than you have tried.” She assured. “I’ll blow that smile right off your face.”

  
“You'll try.” Came the dismissive response, and the sound of blaster rifles being checked met her ears. 

  
“Aww, kriff.” She swore, and glanced towards Risha.

“What the fuck is going on?” she hissed.

  
Risha glanced at her, adjusting her scope. “Sorry for dragging you into this,” she murmured, a little guilty. “I just wanted to see you again.”

  
Vette didn’t get a chance to reply before a round impacted near her head and then they were fighting for their lives.

  
Her twin pistols spat fire and took down a number of thugs, but they had cover and the advantage of numbers.

  
Risha found it difficult to aim with her rifle, as she couldn’t stay still long enough to get many shots off.  
Telanri was a whirlwind of snark and precision, but even she was tiring under the onslaught.

  
Vette was _exhausted_.

  
Her ears rang from the noise, and the smell of spent fuel cells strung her nose. A lucky shot had grazed her arm and it burned when she moved it.

  
Her fingers ached from where she pulled her triggers.

  
With an annoyed growl, she ducked behind the wall.

  
“Cover me.” She grunted, “I gotta send a message.”

  
Telanri boggled at her. “If you’re calling for a takeout, make mine extra spicy.” She bit out. “Keep shooting.”

  
Vette bared her teeth at her.

  
“I’ll only be a minute.” She hissed, and flicked open her communicator. There was no time for a call, but she could tap out a quick message. Hopefully it would be enough.

  
“Are you _done_?” Telanri asked as she reloaded her pistol under a hail of gunfire. “Only I don’t think the Black Suns fancy waiting for you.”

  
Vette closed her holocommunicator, and shoved it in her pocket.

  
“Yeah.” She grunted, hefting her pistols. “I called for backup.”

  
Risha frowned as she ducked behind the wall before she could get a shot off. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” She muttered to Vette, not taking her eyes off their enemy. Vette knew what she meant. Any backup would be _shredded_.

  
Vette snorted softly. “Yeah, I do.”

* * *

It didn’t take long.

  
Their battle had reached a frenzy, and Vette was beginning to wonder how long this was going to drag on for. Feelings of panic were sneaking in, and she was getting shaky. Intrusive what-if's ran through her mind and make her stomach feel twisted and queasy.

  
They had almost lost their position earlier when the Suns had brought grenades, but a few well-timed shots and Telanri's impeccable throwing arm kept them ahead of the game for a few more minutes.  
Vette was releoading when she heard it.

  
A scream. The sound of panicking.

  
“Where is Desh squad?!” she heard one of the Suns call out.

  
“They’re not answering their comms!”

  
“Osk and Leth squads are gone too!”

  
Telanri looked baffled until she glanced at Vette and saw her smiling.

  
Vette looked at her, grim and pleased. 

  
“Backup.” She said simply.

  
Another scream, this one louder. The sound of wild firing and a distinctive hum as blaster bolts were deflected. A wet sounding crunch as a body impacted on the permacrete wall hard enough to turn it to jam.

  
The sound of violence and rage had never sounded to reassuring, right now.

  
Telanri’s eyes were wide, her makeup smudged and her skin smeared with dirt and sweat.

  
“What in the void kind of backup do you _have_?!” she hissed, listening intently.

  
No one was firing on them anymore, all the gunfire now concentrated on another source.

  
Screams and fear made the air heavy, and the scent of blood was cloying.

  
Something heavy was dragged across the floor, crushing several Black Suns. Vette heard them die screaming, and closed her eyes.

  
It was quiet when she opened them again, save for some faint sobbing and a familiar low hum.

  
Vette stepped out from the alleyway, ignoring Risha's hissed requests to stay in cover.

  
There were bodies everywhere.

  
Some were barely recognisable as things.

  
He was standing with his back to her on the other side of the street, sabers humming in his hands, armoured like a demon. His clawed gauntlets gripped the hilts of his sabers, one glowing a pure Sith crimson, the other a rich violet. 

  
He turned when he heard her footsteps, his green skin smeared with blood.

  
His eyes glowed like molten gold in the dim light, and his expression was fierce on his face. 

  
Sometimes she forgot what he was. Then moments like this came, and she was reminded that he wasn’t just her bubbly best friend, cheery and vivacious and sickeningly sweet with Quinn, but he was _Sith_.

  
When he saw it was her, the rage melted into concern, the fierceness slipped into the background.

  
“Vette,” he breathed, ignoring the carnage around him. Deactivating his lightsabers, he stowed them on his belt and hurried to her side.

  
“Are you alright?” he asked, worried.

  
She had never been so full of relief.

  
She offered him a smile. “Yeah.” She said tiredly. “Thanks for coming.”

  
He looked a little indignant. “Of course I came.”

  
A small noise had his saber out and ignited before she could blink, his expression a defensive snarl. One arm was extended and held his lightsaber in front of him, and the other arm wound around her to keep her close to him, out of harm’s way. Her heart skipped a beat for a moment before she calmed, realising what was happening.

  
Telanri stood, hands up and wide eyed.

  
“Hey, uh... no need for that, now.” She assured, uncertain.

  
“Who are you?” he demanded, and Vette worked her way out of his grip.

  
“It's okay,” she assured. “They're good.”

  
“They?” he repeated, eyes narrowed. Telanri's palm slapped her forehead.

  
“Nice one,” she muttered to Vette. “Come out, Risha. You’ve been blown.”

  
Risha emerged from the alley like a svelte shadow, wary and with her rifle in her hands.

  
Once, Vette would have been worried that Ven’fir would have put the charm to Risha, but now it didn’t occur to her. He would flirt and wink, but his heart was very much spoken for.

  
Telanri cast an eye over the Sith that had perpetrated the carnage around them.

  
“So, when you said you had backup, I really didn’t expect it to be a _Sith_.” She said bluntly.

  
Vette shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

  
Risha frowned. “I didn’t know you were affiliated with the Empire.” She murmured, something flat in her voice.

  
Vette frowned. “I’m not. Not really, anyway. I’m on this guy’s crew.” She said, gesturing to Ven’fir, who was watching the exchange like a particularly interested tiger.

  
Telanri, who had been surveying the bloodbath around them, raised her eyebrows.

  
“And who is ‘this guy’, exactly?” she asked, putting on a charming smile.

  
“Darth Venator,” the Sith introduced himself with a grin, inclining his head. “The Emperor's Wrath.”

  
Telanri’s eyebrows went higher.

  
“So you’re not just friends with a Sith,” she said the Vette, “You're friends with a _fancy_ Sith.”

  
Vette shrugged. “I guess so.”

  
“A fancy, _pretty_ Sith.”

  
Risha sighed. “Captain, no.”

  
Telanri pouted, and Ven’fir laughed.

  
“As lovely as you are, Voidhound, my fiancé would be less than pleased.” He said with a knowing look.

  
Telanri's expression turned brittle.

  
“You know who I am.” She said, tone carefully neutral.

  
He nodded. “I do.” He said with a sharp toothed smile. 

  
Vette frowned. “Okay, what's going on? That’s the second time I’ve heard that title today.”

  
Risha sighed.

  
Before she could speak, Ven’fi cut in. His grin was sharp and mean, and his eyes glittered.

  
“The Voidhound is a privateer.” He explained, gleeful. “A very infamous _Republic_ privateer.”

  
Vette blinked.

  
“Oh.” She managed. “You're... you’re not gonna start shooting, right?” she asked, hopeful.

  
Telanri stared. “You think I’m gonna take a shot at a _Sith_? A Sith that just _obliterated_ three squads of Black Suns without breaking a sweat?”

  
Ven’fir shrugged, stowing his weapon.

  
“You wouldn’t believe how many people try.” He said, conversational.

  
Vette nodded. “Yup. Some people have a very inflated sense of self-worth.”

  
Risha blinked. “People really see you coming towards them and just... attack you?”

  
Ven’fir nodded, amused. “Often.” He assured. “I could understand if it was Jedi or whatever, but random people on the street often take offence to my walking near them.”

  
Telanri shook her head, amazed. “Mad.” She muttered. “I uh, I hope you’re not planning on...” she gestured to one of the corpses, its throat crushed into meat, “Squishing us.”

  
Ven’fir chuckled, and Vette noticed how Telanri's eyes paused on his sharp teeth. Vette never understood the fascination some people had with that. Mirialans were hardly Purebloods, they didn’t have mouths full of knives, but their twin sets of canine teeth seemed to interest people more than Vette realised. Ven’fir's facial features probably didn’t help, as he was best described as _sharp_. A defined jawline and feline, bright eyes, hawkish nose and those geometric tattoos made him look quite striking, if not particularly classical.

  
“Are you going to shoot at me?” he asked, amused.

  
Telanri eyed him. “No.” She murmured, and it almost sounded like a question. 

  
“Then no, I won’t squish you.” He assured.

  
Telanri frowned, dubious. “You're not like any Sith I’ve met.” She admitted. “You didn’t even have a monologue prepared.”

  
Ven’fir barked out a laugh. “I’ve never been good at the art of the monologue,” he grinned. “I failed ‘Antagonism 101’ at the Academy.”

  
Risha had been studying them, and Vette had noticed.

  
“Vette?” she asked lowly. “Can I talk to you?”

  
Having an idea of what her childhood friend wanted to discuss, she nodded and led her a few feet away.  
Ven’fir and Telanri watched them go, before going back to snarking at each other.

  
Risha sighed when they got further enough away. She looked as tired as Vette felt, and Vette was fascinated. When she had last seen her, Risha had been a teenager. Now as a woman, she was so different, but so similar to the girl she had been.

  
“Are you alright?” Vette asked, checking her over. 

  
Risha smiled tiredly. “Same old Vette, always checking on me.”

  
Vette shrugged awkwardly. “Well, you know.” She mumbled.

  
Risha sighed, brushing strands of auburn hair from her brow.

  
“I... I really did miss you, you know.” She admitted. “And I’m glad you’re alright. Now just after today but... in general.” She tilted her head. “Are you? Alright, that is?”

  
Vette nodded, smiling tiredly. “Yeah. I... I’ve found my place, you know?”

  
Risha raised an eyebrow. “I never thought it would be with the Empire.” She murmured.

  
Vette sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’m not on the Empire's side.” She assured. “But I am on his side. He’s my friend.”

  
Risha smiled, shaking her head. “I find that so strange,” she admitted. “I’m not saying it’s not true, but I just can’t imagine a Sith being friends with anyone.”

  
Vette chuckled. “He’s... something. You’ve met him as Darth Venator, but I know him as Ven'fir.” She admitted. “He’s the guy who saved my life when I got thrown in prison on Korriban. He freed me as soon as he could. He’s the guy who helped me find my mother and my sister, and my old crew. He’s the guy who wanders around in his fiancé’s clothes in the morning because he hasn’t had his caf yet, and who uses the Force to steal extra cereal when his fiancé isn’t looking.” She explained fondly. “We've been travelling together for a long time now, and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”

  
Risha listened, fascinated despite herself. She glanced at where Telanri was flirting and Ven’fir was giving as good as he got, a grin on his face.

  
“Somehow, I didn’t think Sith got married. Obviously they do, but I just... cant imagine it.” She admitted.

  
Vette shrugged. “Yeah. Usually they marry for politics, but just as many marry for love. Usually Sith marry Sith, though. He’s marrying a Captain in the Imperial military. They're sickeningly sweet.” She grinned, fond despite herself.

  
She pretended to be disgusted by them, but Quinn and Ven’fir were awfully cute. Even their arguments were entertaining. That morning they had ended up in an argument about names for their hypothetical future cats or something equally inane, and they had ended up in such a snarky, sassy argument that Vette pretended to be cleaning in the galley just the listen.  
Also, they were both extremely pretty, and she had to admit that the eye candy was nice.

  
Risha shook her head, wondrous. “I suppose they’re people too,” she allowed. “I was going to ask if you were there willingly, but I think that’s a redundant question now.”

  
Vette snorted. “Yeah.” She nodded. “He’s family, you know?”

  
Risha smiled. “I understand. I would like to keep in contact, though.”

  
Vette nodded, enthusiastic. “It's been good.” She grinned. "Seeing you again, I mean. Not the ‘getting shot at', part.”

  
Risha surprised her by gathering her up into a hug, which Vette returned.

  
“I missed you,” the human woman murmured. “I’m glad you happy.”

  
Vette closed her eyes, and smiled.

  
“Yeah, me too.”

  
They separated and, heading back to Telanri and Ven’fir, stepped into their conversation.

  
Vette snorted. “Flirting? I’ll tell Quinn.” She smirked.  
Ven’fir waved a dismissive hand, and Telanri’s eyes followed his clawed gauntlet. “So? He doesn’t mind. He still said yes to marrying me, so it’s really his fault that he has amazing taste.” He grinned.

  
Vette rolled her eyes. “Alright, we need to get back to the ship and I don’t know if we can find a speeder big enough for your ego.” She snarked.

  
Telanri shook her head, a little blown away.

  
“He said no to a threesome with him and his hot husband.” She said with a pout.

  
“ _Fiancé_!” Ven’fir corrected as Risha sighed.

  
“Captain, _please_.” She muttered, long suffering.

  
Telanri shrugged. “I had to _ask_.” she defended.

  
“Did you?” Risha asked pointedly.

  
Ven’fir shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no, but I think Quinn would have something to say about it.” He said with a grin.

  
Vette sighed. “Right, that’s our cue to leave.” She said to Risha and Telanri, who blinked at them. "Risha, I'll be in touch."

  
 “Come on, you whore.” She muttered to her Sith, patting his arm and stepping gingerly over a corpse. Her arm twinged and she winced.

  
“Quinn is going to tell you off, you realise.” Ven’fir informed her as they walked away. She had forgotten about that. She groaned.

  
“He's going to fuss.” She complained.

  
Ven’fir grinned, amused.

  
“Like a mother hen.” He agreed.

  
Vette groaned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've been absent for a few weeks! I'm ridiculously ill right now, but my flu has subsided just enough for me to look at my phone without my brain trying to explode out of my skull.
> 
> I've wanted to do a Risha+Vette reunion for a while. This didn't come out as I had hoped, but I still quite like it.


	36. My father used to tell me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ven'fir and Malavai get to know each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT.
> 
> SMUTTY SMUT.
> 
> BADLY WRITTEN SMUTTY SMUT.

 “Don’t you _dare_ stop-”

  
Ven’fir grinned as he lowered his head to bite at the tender skin that was so temptingly laid out before him.

  
“Copy that, Major.” He teased, moving his hips and listening to the throaty sounds that resulted from the action.

  
His brain was foggy at the moment, so he couldn’t even remember which round they were on. More than their third, he was sure.

  
This was bliss.

  
His fingers were digging into the flesh around his lovers waist, and keeping him steady as Ven’fir fucked him.

  
He could see strong hands tangling in the sheets and his aim was to see if he could get Malavai actually biting the pillow before they were well and truly done. He had always wanted to see if people actually did that.

  
It was a stunning view, if he was being honest.

  
Malavai's back was like a canvas, his skin shining like a mirror under the low light. Freckles and moles that he suspected Malavai didn’t even know were there decorated his skin, as well as a few scars. Subtle muscle ran from his shoulders to his hips in pleasing lines, and Ven’fir could write sonnets about the backside that cushioned his hips every time he moved forward.

  
His back fell in an arch and it was hard not to lean over and drag him up for a messy, over the shoulder kiss.

  
Malavai liked it when Ven’fir played with his hair, or when he pulled it during sex. Ven’fir was more than happy to use that to his advantage.

  
The moans coming from the man underneath him were throaty and hoarse, and Ven’fir remembered his hand around a pale throat while Malavai bounced in his lap.

  
He was beginning to feel hot and tingly, and he knew he was close.

  
He leaned in and, with a grin, doubled down and relished the yelp he got in return.

  
He never got tired of making Malavai come completely _undone_.

  
Whether it was when he had him naked on the bed, gasping his pleasure as Ven’fir screwed him into the mattress, or when he shook himself apart as they ground against each other, fully clothed and muffling their sounds because they really shouldn’t be caught like this in the hallway to the command centre. Or when Ven had ended up muttering delirious words into Malavai's ear as the human made stars sparkle behind his eyelids every time he moved his hips, the Sith's legs wrapped around his waist.

  
Or, like earlier, when Ven’fir had all but demanded that Malavai sit on his face.

  
Air might have eventually become an issue, but _what a way to go._

  
Still, they were both still revelling in each other after being apart for so long. The big call with Malcolm and Acina was due in a few days, so Ven’fir had cleared his diary and taken some days off to spend with his husband.

  
He knew it had caused some frustration among his people, suddenly going missing like this, but Lana had fiercely encouraged him to do so.

  
“You deserve a break as much as the rest of us,” she had said, yellow eyes intense. “And I would think that anyone could forgive you for wanting to spend time with your husband.”

  
Ven’fir made a mental note to get some holiday time organised for Lana at some point. Probably somewhere with a spa and cocktails.

  
Still, they hadn’t left the bedroom for more than quick midnight food runs, and Ven’fir had to admit that he was getting a little tired. And sore.

  
Malavai gasped underneath him as he gripped his hips hard enough to leave marks, and Ven’fir suddenly didn’t feel so tired anymore.

  
They were both a _mess_.

  
Ven’fir was certain he looked like he had lost a fight with some kind of wild animal, considering the scratches and bites that littered his skin.

  
And his _hair_.

  
The tangles were going to take forever to get out.

  
Malavai wasn’t any better. Ven’fir had left enough marks on his neck to make the scratches on his back look tame.

  
If he was being honest with himself, he had done a number on his lovers’ skin. He needed to remember that his teeth were _sharp_ and biting left _marks_.

  
His hair was a mess too, standing up in damp spikes as Ven’fir used one hand to grip it and pull, netting him an exhausted moan from beneath him.

  
Looking at the state of his lover, sated and exhausted beneath him, his skin shining with perspiration and occasionally smeared with Force knew what, moaning as Ven’fir screwed him again, he felt like he should probably feel bad.

  
His legs were shaking, and he was drawing in deep breaths, but Ven’fir could hear him gasping out tired encouragement even as the Sith felt him shiver.

  
It was later, on round who-knew-what, when he was in Ven’fir's lap after a quick rest, moving his hips like sin as they traded lazy kisses, that someone hammered on the door.

  
It was a testament to how tired and mellow they both were that they didn’t even _stop_.

  
“Oi!” Came a loud voice, and Ven’fir blearily wondered what Vette was doing outside his door.

  
“You two have been fucking each other in there for two days!”

  
Ven’fir blinked as Malavai glanced down at him. He shrugged.

  
“It feels longer than that,” he murmured, idly running his hands up and down his lovers’ side and hearing him sigh.

  
“Well, I’m not done.” The human said primly, shifting enough to make stars burst behind Ven’fir’s eyes.  
“You’re so fucking perfect.” The Sith breathed, looking up in wonder.

  
Malavai was already flushed from exertion, bit his lip and grinned, leaning down to kiss him again.

  
“Fuck,” Ven’fir muttered when they parted. “We are a mess.”

  
Malavai hummed, eyes fluttering closed.

  
“You like it.” he teased, and Ven’fir couldn’t help but grin.

  
“Guilty.”

  
Ven’fir gripped his hips and changed his pace, which got him a long, low moan and made Malavai press closer. He could hear him panting close to his ear, and resolved to get him off one last time before they collapsed.

  
“ _Oh_ ,” he heard, and doubled down. That had to be painful by now, but his lover didn’t seem to notice or mind. Ven’fir suspected he rather liked the ache. “ _I love you.”_

  
Ven’fir never tired of those words, especially not after he thought he would never hear them again.

  
“I love you t-"

  
“I know you’re in there!”

  
Malavai groaned and for once it wasn’t a sexy sound, he let his forehead fall onto Ven’fir’s shoulder.

  
“She has the worst timing,” he muttered into the Sith's neck.

  
Ven’fir pressed a clumsy kiss to his temple.

  
“Ignore her.” He rumbled, barely audible. “She’ll get bored and leave.”

  
Malavai drew back and pinned him with a look. The intended effect was a little diminished by his bed hair, flushed skin and the trail of love bites decorating his skin, but he still managed to give a beady stare.

  
“This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m finding it difficult to stay in the mood when I know Vette is outside the door.” He muttered, annoyed.

  
Ven’fir grinned and moved his hips, watching with absolute delight as his lover close his eyes, bite his lip and let a shiver chase it’s way up his spine. 

  
“Looks like you don’t mind too much.” He teased, and Malavai bit out a breathy curse.

  
“Oh, I _hate_ you.” He muttered, “You’re the worst.”

  
Ven’fir laughed lowly, but before he could answer, Vette's voice drifted through the door again.

  
“If you two take any longer, Quinn is going to be more decrepit than he already is.” She called, annoyed. “When you’re done screwing your GILF, Ven, I have stuff for you to sign.”

  
Her footsteps could be heard stomping away, apparently not bothering to stay longer.

  
Ven’fir couldn’t say he minded.

  
Malavai was frowning.

  
“I am not _decrepit_.” He muttered, offended. “And what is a... a gilf?”

  
Ven’fir couldn’t keep it together, and began to laugh, holding Malavai close as he did so.

  
“Grandpa I'd Like to Fuck.” He managed through breathless giggles.

  
Malavai looked horrified. “I... I am not anyone's grandfather.” He protested. “How old does she think I _am?_ ”

  
“Old enough to be a grandparent, apparently.” Ven’fir sniggered. “It’s okay, I’ll still fuck you.”

  
Malavai sent a vicious look his way, despite still being in the Sith's lap.

  
“I’m so glad,” He hissed. “That you will take such a burden upon yourself.”

  
Ven’fir aimed a lopsided grin his way. “I’m a generous guy.”

  
Malavai huffed and moved his hips a little, breathing out through pursed lips and letting himself go boneless and comfortable again.

  
“I am not decrepit.” He muttered sourly, peeved.

  
Ven’fir looked him up and down, appreciative.

  
“You’re really not,” he agreed, moving his hands to run over damp skin, dips and swells of firm flesh and muscle. “You're a work of _art_.”

  
He moved in to lick and suckle at the tender skin of his lovers throat, and felt him tip his head back with a sigh.

  
“I would _worship_ you,” he breathed, meaning it. “You're gorgeous.”

  
Now Malavai was blushing. “Be quiet,” he whispered, embarrassed.

  
Ven’fir gave the spot he had been paying attention to one last nip with his teeth before dragging his tongue over it and pulling away. It was bruised red and stood out against the pale skin around it. He admired his handiwork.

  
He met Malavai’s eyes, and smiled. Moving, he rested his forehead against the human's, and felt him close his eyes, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks.  
It was like they had never been apart.

  
Ven’fir appreciated that.

  
Malavai had been so touch starved, he had been shaking after a few light touches.

  
Of course, they had gone way past a ‘few light touches' over the past few days.

  
He tilted his head and kissed his partner, feeling him respond with the same warm affection.

  
Staying close, they shook themselves apart.

  
Later, when they were trading lazy kisses and cuddles, their skin flushed and hot from the shower, Ven’fir started to talk.

  
“You know, my father once told me something.” He murmured, carding his fingers through Malavai's greying hair as the human curled into his side, his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

  
“Mm?” Came the sleepy response, and Ven’fir grinned at Malavai’s uncharacteristic lack of decorum.

  
“He said: if you think you’ve found The One but you can’t laugh with them during sex, you haven’t found The One.”

  
Malavai moved his head to give Ven’fir a look, raised eyebrow and all.

  
Ven’fir gave him a grin and an affectionate cuddle, warmth suffusing his limbs.

  
“You're my One, you know.” He said simply, pleased. “And you always will be. Even when you get decrepit.”

  
He laughed as Malavai prodded him, expression flatly amused.

  
“At least you’re saying I’m not there yet,” he said dryly, shifting to prop himself up on his elbows.

  
Ven’fir looked down the length of him, appreciating the shape of his behind under the sheets. Ven’fir hoped he looked as good when he got to his forties.

  
“You're...” he started, trying to find the words. “You mean _everything_ to me. I would tear the galaxy apart for you.”

  
Malavai looked quite overwhelmed, but he soon smiled and shifted closer. “You took the words right out of my mouth.” He murmured, and Ven’fir smiled.

  
Their impromptu vacation would have to end in the morning, but for now, nothing outside mattered.

  
Things hadn’t been right for a long time, but in that moment, Ven’fir felt like they had gotten a step closer to being okay.


	37. When nobody was looking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ven’fir sneered at the other Sith, lip curling as he fixed amber eyes on the man who was steadily turning puce in his rage.
> 
> “The truth isn’t a dick Ravage, don’t take it so hard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The follow on from Chapter 12, in which Ven'fir makes an unwitting bargain with Darth Nox.

Darth Marr sometimes wondered what it would be like to have children.

  
It was a thought that had crossed his mind before, an idling notion of legacy and just what his might look like.

  
If it looked anything like a full session of the Dark Council, he was never entertaining the idea again.

  
Darths Ravage and Venator were bickering like schoolchildren, while Vowrawn watched the argument like a hutt ball game, smiling as he unwrapped yet another boiled sweet. Mortis seemed to have fallen asleep, and he was sure that Acina was playing online Pazaak on her holo-pad.

  
A steadily rising feeling of irritation was pricking his senses from the shadowy corner Nox had secluded himself in, and the man seemed to be actually trying to work through the noise, in an admirable if doomed effort at productivity.

  
Marr was probably one of the few people who could say he actually got on with Nox. The man had a personality like a gundark with toothache, but his sphere was actually functioning on it’s own without some vital piece falling apart the moment he turned his back. So, improvement.

  
It helped that it finally had a head who was actually enthusiastic about what the Reclamation Service and the cadre of researchers got up to, and cared enough to actually get involved rather than sitting in his chambers waxing poetic about tradition and the ‘good old days'. Still, he only spoke when he had something to contribute or someone to verbally eviscerate, which Marr appreciated. Certain members could do well to follow his example.

  
He was looking at _you_ , Venator.

  
The Wrath and Darth Ravage were still arguing, and Marr was surprised to see that the Wrath actually looked annoyed.

  
Despite his massive, burning presence in the Force, the Wrath was a fairly laid-back person. Sure, he had a few embarrassing holovids out there of him ripping a heart from a chest with his bare hands and crushing it before the eyes of its terrified and dying owner, but didn’t they _all_?

  
Ravage was a monumental prick, but that wasn’t usually enough to get the Wrath to be serious.

  
He usually spent these meetings slouched on his chair and tapping on his holopad like a teenager, looking up only to sass someone or contribute some half-assed suggestion. Marr was convinced that his lover was the reason the Wrath even showed up on the right day and mostly on time. He wasn’t work-shy however, as he had taken on a few extra duties since his explosive debut as the Wrath.

  
He led seminars at the Academy (the acolytes loved him), sponsored the Kaas City Big Cat Sanctuary and spearheaded alien outreach programs, all in addition to his rather enthusiastic approach to being the Empire's enforcer.

  
So, not lazy. Just very easily bored.

  
When things got serious he was a steady presence, stepping up to bulldoze anything that needed bulldozing, or interceding when bickering began to dissolve into hostilities.

  
In times of not-quite-crisis (Marr wasn’t sure the Empire really had more than the two settings) however, he was content to let them deal with things, happy to play Angry-Flutterplumes on his holopad or flirt with Acina (who could probably have been less amused).

  
This meeting wasn’t anything special, simply the quarterly review, which made it all the more surprising that the Wrath was not only present, but that he was quite clearly intent on giving Darth Ravage an aneurysm.

  
This was the fourth time he had interrupted the Darth, who was steadily turning pace with rage.

  
“Ravage, are you always this stupid, or is today a special occasion?” The Wrath drawled, tapping clawed, gauntleted fingers on the arm of his throne.   
Marr honestly didn’t  know how he did anything with those on.

  
Ravage looked like he was about to leap over the table and throttle the Wrath with his bare hands.

  
“The day I take advice from some dirty blooded, alien _filth_ is the day I-"

  
Marr wanted to sigh, but the spitting Force signatures were causing the rest of the room to wake up and pay attention.

  
Force, with the way the Wrath was unconsciously flexing his aura, the whole of the Academy could probably feel the furious echoes.

  
“Ravage.”

  
The smooth, deep voice that had interrupted the apoplectic Darth was not the Wrath, but Darth Nox.

  
Nox’ aura was different from that of the Wrath, whose explosive power was loud and burning, like being at the centre of a firestorm.

  
Nox had always reminded Marr of a deep lake, dark, intense and unfathomable. His power was like the air before a storm, charged with electricity and so heavy it felt like drowning.

  
The full weight of that attention was an interesting thing to feel, and Marr suspected that Ravage was feeling it rather acutely right now.

  
His blindfold hid most of his face, but Darth Nox seemed perfectly able to make his displeasure known anyway.

  
“The Wrath makes a valid point.” The head of the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge intoned, leaning forwards in his throne-like chair. “Expansion is all well and good, but not if it comes at the expense of finalising control of previously conquered systems. You leave rebellions in your wake.”

  
Ravage, smouldering with rage, sneered. His own aura was spitting like an out of control fire, licking at the edges of their senses. 

  
“What would you know about it?” he snapped. “If you ever took your nose out of your books and spells, maybe I would accept your council on matters of _war._ ”

  
“As far as I am aware, Ravage,” the reply came, menace dripping from the Miraluka Sith's voice. “Your Sphere is that of ‘Expansion and Diplomacy’, not war. If you cannot even remember which Sphere you are head of, I can see how we are in such dire straits.”

  
His eyes narrowing and a flush decorating his cheeks, Ravage waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  
“You cant _see_ anything.” He muttered, and the Wrath laughed.

  
“If you were as good at your job as you are at schoolyard insults, we wouldn’t have our current problem.” The Wrath shot back, his smile more like the baring of teeth in threat.

  
“You disparage my books, Ravage,” Nox cut in. “But if you ever read one, you might know the difference between war and diplomacy. I could lend you a dictionary, if you would like?”

  
They were batting Ravage around like two cats playing with something small and juicy. It was fascinating to watch really, but Marr could feel the tension in the air, the meanness behind the banter. They were goading him, riling him up and also they could go in for the proverbial kill.

  
The Dark Council was a cadre of individuals, its members standing alone even as they formed alliances and traded favours with each other.  
This alliance seemed different, and not just because they were the only two aliens on the Council.

  
It filled Marr with hope.

  
This was what the Empire should look like. An alliance of individuals, each as unique and driven as the last, bound by loyalty and passion to their Empire.

  
Right now however, they were tearing Darth Ravage apart. The man had been hemorrhaging power, and Marr had wondered when he would end up culled.

  
“How dare you?” Ravage was visibly shaking with rage, and since Sith were not in the habit of suppressing anything, it was little wonder he hadn’t started throwing lightening.

  
The Wrath stared him down, amber eyes burning. He was baring his teeth in a snarl, and his form was tense, looking like he was about to spring up from his chair.

  
“I _dare_ , Ravage, because you’re an _idiot_.” Venator bit out. “You’re running your sphere into the ground. You’ve expended more effort in power plays than your job.”

  
 Nox learned forward in his chair.

  
“Your own interests come secondary to the Empire.” Nox said flatly. “You would do well to remember that.”

  
“You insolent upstart! Are you _threatening_ me?” Ravage spluttered, his own aura burning.

  
Nox tilted his head.

  
“ _Obviously_.” He drawled.

  
Marr winced, and hoped no one saw.  
Ravage’s hand twitched towards his lightsaber.

  
The Wrath's amber eyes followed the motion.

  
“Do it,” he murmured, expression dark. “Go on. See how long you last.”

  
Nox steepled his fingers. “Darth Ravage.” He intoned, “Take your hits with grace, yes? The Council would see improvement from your sphere, or it will be your sphere no longer.”

  
Ravage was trembling with rage.

  
With a snarl, he flung a crackle of lightning at Nox.  
Marr watched, silent. The rest of the council matched him.

Lightning was probably not the first thing he would have used against Nox.

  
Nox lazily batted the spitting arc away with one gloved hand, letting it impact harmlessly on the wall, where it left a smoking burn mark.

  
Slowly and deliberately, he stood.

  
“Accepted.” He murmured, and gracefully stepped down from his throne and off the dias, striding towards the open centre of the room.

  
He stopped in the middle, and unclipped his lightsaber, igniting the blade.

  
Marr was struck at how little he seemed to use the weapon, preferring instead to rely on his impressive strength in the Force.

  
The blade was a deep violet, and the metal of the hilt was simple and dark.

  
Shadows seemed a little longer in his presence, the lights burning a little less brightly in their sconces.

  
The Wrath grinned, and it wasn’t a cheerful thing.

  
“Well?” he prompted meanly, eyes like molten gold and fixed on Ravage, who had gone very still.

  
“Your challenge has been accepted.” The Wrath continued, urging him on.

  
When he didn’t get an answer, the Wrath stood.

  
He wasn’t a particularly tall or bulky man, but his presence was formidable.

  
His boots sounded loud on the polished floor as he crossed to the large double doors, and turned his back on it.

  
His presence was always heavy, but it seemed to become even more so. It was like a roar in their ears, a heavy, screaming firestorm that beat against their senses.

  
It was easy not to take the Wrath seriously. That was a mistake too many people died making.

  
He crossed his arms and the symbolism was clear.

  
No one leaves.

  
Ravage was very still.

  
Nox tilted his head, feet apart and blade pointing down.

  
Marr watched carefully.

  
He would not intervene. Ravage would have to deal with his own mess.

  
When no one else was looking, he saw the Wrath and Nox catch each other’s presence.

  
The corner of the Wrath's mouth curled up, and Nox didn’t show any sign of anything.

  
He didn’t need to.

  
Marr had seen.

  
He sat back, and resolved to watch the show. The council had met for an innocuous purpose, but they would leave as an entirely different entity, whether they all realised it or not.

  
Ravage stood up, and Marr saw Nox smile.


	38. If I could do it over again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time is the charm.

Honestly, things were not going well.

  
Things could also be much worse, and Ven’fir tried to take solace from that.

  
As things went, this was one he very much wanted to get right.

  
He was proposing.

  
Again.

  
The first time around had left much to be desired, considering he had tearfully babbled something along the lines of ‘I promise I’ll make an honest man out of you if you just please _stay with me_ ' while Malavai had clutched at his hand and tried to keep his eyes open as he bled out.

  
Also, they had been surrounded by Jedi.

  
Malavai had woken alone, his only company the beep from the emergency transponder that Ven’fir had been allowed to set before they had taken him away.

  
Ven’fir couldn’t imagine how he must have felt, unable to move, unable to even speak as he lay in the cave they had taken refuge in. Ven’fir was gone, and Malavai would have had no way of knowing that he was alive.

  
He shook his head, dislodging the melancholy thoughts.

  
He needed to decide on his plan of attack.

  
He would assault Malavai with affection and love, on the battlefield of romance.

  
Ring.

  
Right, he had one of those. It was a pretty thing, a simple band of dark metal, inlaid with a thin line of silver running through the centre.

  
The jeweller had just about collapsed when Darth Venator had walked into his little shop in full Sith armour, and asked to look at his engagement ring selection.

  
To his credit, the man had brought out what Ven’fir had asked for, and been perfectly helpful in the choosing process. He had only gone in the back to hyperventilate twice, and his hands had barely even shaken when he had passed the rings over.

  
He had been quite surprised at Ven’fir's selection, considering it was midrange at best. It was perfect, though.

  
Malavai was not an ostentatious person, nor would he appreciate something so expensive he would be afraid to wear it.

  
No, simple and elegant worked much better.

  
So, the ring was sorted. It had been much easier than Ven’fir had expected it to be, considering all the holonet articles he had read had expounded on the difficulties in choosing a ring.

  
He had read a _lot_ of articles.

  
Most of them said to make things perfect for your partner, which Ven’fir rolled his eyes at.

  
Well, _obviously_.

  
He wasn’t going to go out of his way to make it terrible, was he?

  
Sighing, he idly scrolled through yet another bit piece about proposing. With as many different cultures as the galaxy had, it was hard to pick out what applied to him. Even some of the stuff that _did_ apply to him was suspect at best.

  
_Ten Things You NEED To Think About Before You Propose!_

  
It was, in his opinion, absolute trash. It kept making references to ‘your mans' and if he ever referred to his dear Captain in that way, the man would definitely kill him.

  
It had so much Republic slang in it that he had to search the holonet for a translation.

  
Some of this stuff made no sense, which meant he was probably getting old.

  
Sighing, he tossed the holopad onto the bed and got up to stretch. His back popped.

  
Definitely old.

  
Ven’fir had never been one to plan ahead, so he decided to stick with his strengths and just sort of... make it up.

  
The Force would probably guide him or something.

  
Although, movies usually had good ideas in them.

  
Time for some research, which definitely wasn’t an excuse to watch _Warm Hearts, Cold Space: Absolute Zero_ for the umpteenth time. Definitely not.

  
That one had the fake wedding in it, where Princess Maro-jin and Lady Miinachari had to pretend to be a couple to catch an assassin before the masked ball.

  
Three hours, some tears and an entire family sized bag of salted algae-corn later, he had a plan.

  
Restaurants were classic proposal locations, and he was sure he could make it perfectly romantic, just like the scene in his favourite holo-movie.

  
So, now he just needed a reservation at the nicest place in Kaas City.

  
Malavai deserved nothing less, and Ven’fir would never turn down an opportunity to get fancy.

  
It was really rather lucky that, when he called them, they just happened to have a single table left, out of the way and near the balcony. It was exactly where he would have chosen, too.

  
Not questioning his good fortune, Ven’fir quickly booked it.

  
Now, Malavai would fret over not having anything to wear.

  
While the Captain was a formal man by nature, he was also a soldier that breathed the military, and did not own a suit that Ven’fir deemed acceptable.

  
So, here he was, raiding Malavai's closet.

  
Poking around, he noticed a small slip of flimsi pinned to one of his uniform jackets.

  
It was his exact measurements.

  
He supposed Malavai liked to have these things written down in case he needed them.

  
How convenient.

  
Feeling quite accomplished at everything going so well, he returned to his list.

  
One by one, things got ticked off with surprising ease.

  
It was like the Force was helping him along, just like how, when he had been looking for Malavai's ring size, Vette had mentioned it out of the blue.

  
At the time, he hadn’t questioned why Vette, of all people, would know Malavai's ring size and randomly volunteer that information right when he needed it.

  
The Force really did work in mysterious ways, he supposed.

  
The suit came three days early, and the pocket square just happened to compliment Ven’fir's own suit, even though he could have sworn he had forgotten to specify it.

  
Even asking Malavai on a date had gone well, with the man actually agreeing that he needed a night off.

  
No emergencies cropped up, and the holo was silent.

That was strange in itself, considering the regular holocall from Jaesa's parents was almost like clockwork.

  
The crew were being quiet, only Vette working on something at one of the consoles proof that other people were aboard.

  
Ven’fir fixed his hair again, wanting to look perfect. Dark curls brushed his collar.

  
His suit was black and cut in a fashionable style, and he pulled on his gloves with a feeling of vague flutteryness. Gold accents and a faintly patterned waistcoat gave the suit a somewhat flashier appearance than was usual, and he liked how it looked.

  
The fluttering wasn't nerves though. No, definitely not.

  
He didn’t get nervous.

  
He was just... excited.

  
That was it.

  
He took a deep breath, and gave himself one last look up and down in the mirror.

  
The ring was in a small box in his pocket, and he double checked it wasn’t visible.

  
He left his quarters, keeping the fluttering in his belly under control.

  
Malavai was already there, talking to Vette at her terminal. They were being quiet, and looked quite conspiratorial.

  
Ven’fir took him in, letting his eyes linger on his profile.

  
His suit was charcoal grey, and he made a mental note to send thanks to the tailor as the material hugged his figure and highlighted his legs.

  
He was smiling faintly, looking amused at something Vette was saying.

  
His hair was perfectly styled and his stubble was immaculate, his leather gloved hands moving as he talked.

  
He looked edible in that suit, and Ven’fir congratulated himself for getting him into it.

  
 Hopefully getting him _out_ of it would be equally rewarding.

  
The human glanced up and his smile widened into something warm when he saw Ven’fir, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he did so.

  
_Yeah_ , he thought happily, _he's the one._

  
“Are you ready?” he asked, somewhat unnecessarily. He watched Malavai run his eyes over him and smiled at the way his expression turned appreciative, and lingered on his figure.

  
The Captain nodded.

  
“Of course,” he said simply, moving to press a kiss to Ven’fir’s cheek. He smelled like leather and some warm, spiced cologne, and Ven’fir wanted to pull him close and bury his nose in the crook of his neck.

  
“You two are going to break Kaas City's heart, you know.” Vette grinned, leaning against the terminal.

She seemed cheerful and excited about something, but Ven’fir couldn’t imagine what it was.

  
“That's the plan,” he said with a smile, feeling Malavai slip an arm around his waist. He leaned into the touch and returned the gesture, and Vette pretended to gag.

  
“Go on, get out of here before I get a cavity,” she smirked, waving a hand in their direction.

  
The rented speeder was parked outside, and Ven’fir had been quite pleased with how it drove. He had taken it out for a spin earlier, and, as they settled into the leather of the seats, realised that he had forgotten to fill up the tank.

  
Feeling a pit of dread in his belly, he started the engine and was pleasantly surprised when the digital needle brushed the far right.

  
That wasn’t right. 

  
He could have sworn the little light was on.

  
He was having a very strange feeling right now, of something that he probably should know but wasn’t quite there yet.

  
He brushed it off. Probably the Force. Mysterious things usually were.

  
Malavai tilted his head. 

  
“Is there a problem?” he asked, curious. His tone was innocent.

  
“I- no. No, I just thought I forgot something, but I didn’t.”

  
Malavai would usually have questioned that, but to Ven’fir’s surprise, he didn’t. He just nodded and sat back in his seat, and smiled.

  
“I remember when I drove you everywhere.” He commented, amused.

  
Ven’fir snorted, and started the engine. It came to life with a throaty purr.

  
“You still drive most of the time,” he pointed out.

  
Malavai shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he assured. “You weren’t such a bad student, either.”

  
The Sith gave him a knowing look as they pulled away.

  
“Eventually. I think I was pretty annoying at the beginning.”

  
Malavai tipped his hand in a so-so gesture.

  
“You got better,” he said, diplomatic.

  
“Personally, I think our lessons hit a high point when we fucked in the car,” Ven’fir commented, grinning as Malavai blushed.

  
“You're so crude, my lord.” he muttered under his breath.

  
Ven’fir winked at him.

  
“And yet, you still love me.”

  
Malavai gave him a look. “I do, to my eternal shame.”

  
Ven’fir just smiled, and kept his eyes on the traffic ahead.

  
They pulled into the front of the restaurant, and Ven’fir handed the keys to the valet, who bowed so low Ven’fir was sure he was actually smelling his own shoes.

  
Malavai looked lovely in the warm lights of the restaurant, and Ven’fir barely registered the staff showing them to their table. The other patrons, mostly members of Dromund Kaas’ noble houses or other wealthy citizens, watched them.

  
Ven’fir knew he was a public figure and the attention didn’t bother him, but he was aware Malavai was less comfortable in the spotlight.

  
He brushed his lover's hand with his own, and got a grateful smile in response.

  
He suited the glamour and class as much as he suited fatigues and a rifle, even if Ven’fir knew he much preferred the latter over the former.

  
Still, the occasional dip into a world far away from battle and duty was welcome.

  
The table was set in a corner, next to the huge double doors that led to a gently lit balcony with a view over Dromund Kaas. The city felt fresh and light after a storm, the raindrops lingering on the thousands of windows catching the lights from the city.

  
The lightening rods disappeared into the inky sky, and their buildings gleamed under the moonlight.

  
The food was wonderful, and Ven’fir marvelled at just what Malavai was willing to try. For all his hang-ups and fussy nature, he liked trying new foods.

  
Vette teased Ven’fir for being picky with his food, but one couldn’t say the same for Malavai.

  
The whole time, Ven’fir felt the tickling feeling in his belly get worse.

  
It was stupid really, because Malavai had _already been asked._

  
Still, a panicked battlefield confession did not a proper proposal make, and while Ven’fir was many things, he had still been raised a noble.

  
Ven’fir couldn’t say that Malavai ever switched off exactly, but his smiles carried more warmth and his touches were more casual and gentler when they were away from duty. He laughed and he drank his wine and looked at Ven’fir with such fondness that it took the Sith's breath away.

  
Some Sith would not accept such things, seeing the flirting and the banter as a challenge, especially from a Force-blind.

  
Ven’fir had never seen the appeal of subservience in a lover, at least not to the point of grovelling.

  
Sex though, was another matter entirely.

  
A little submission play in bed was fun, and he knew public appearances needed to be kept, but the idea of a passive partner was so _boring_.

  
Breaking Malavai of the belief that that was what all Sith wanted had been hard, but worth it.

  
He wanted a challenge, someone to push him and for him to trust and be trusted. He wanted to be able to care for someone and have them care for him in return. He wanted to laugh with them as much as he wanted to fuck them, to sit and cuddle as much as he wanted to hold them down on the bed and absolutely ruin them for anyone else. He didn’t want to always be the strong one. The protector. He wanted a partner, not a plaything. The latter might have been enough when he was younger, but hardship had forged a desire for companionship as well as physical attraction.

  
He wanted affection borne of fondness, and love borne of appreciation and friendship.

  
And he had found it.

  
Malavai was not everyone’s cup of Fyi'am, he knew that.

  
He was fussy and standoffish, quick to snap and slow to trust. He was older than Ven’fir by more than a few years, and poor treatment had left its marks in the way he disliked showing skin, couldn’t accept a compliment on anything but his work, and never slept with the door open.

  
Still, Ven’fir _loved_ him. 

  
He was under no illusions about his own personality quirks either.

  
It was a good job that Malavai was the patient sort.  
Most of the time.

  
Still, when dessert came and went and Ven’fir was still getting over the religious experience his had been, the squirming in his belly hit new heights.

  
It helped to imagine Malavai on their future wedding day, smiling so wide that Ven’fir barely realised that there was anyone else present.

  
Still, it needed to be the right-

  
“Shall we get some air?” 

  
Ven’fir blinked as Malavai spoke, and followed his gaze to the balcony.

  
He could have kissed him right then and there, since it was a perfect way to get him outside.

  
“Sure,” he agreed, trying to stay nonchalant. Malavai smiled and stood, the suit making Ven’fir’s brain lag a bit.

  
Force, he looked good in tailoring.

  
It made him want to go somewhere classy like the opera to show him off, before dragging him to the bathroom during the intermission and fucking him hard and filthy until his legs could barely hold him up.  
Then he would watch as Malavai came to, and try to fix his appearance to something that didn’t tell the world that they had just been screwing in the bathroom stall.

  
Real Malavai gave him a funny look at his somewhat goofy smile, but his expression cleared as he took in the Dromund Kaas skyline.

  
The city gleamed in the moonlight, the jungle and mountains that surrounded it providing rugged contrast to the shining skyscrapers.

  
Malavai looked out over the vista, his expression open.

  
Ven’fir wanted to capture that expression on holo so he could remember it whenever he wanted.

  
He joined his lover at the railing, slipping an arm around his waist under his suit jacket.

  
Malavai leaned into him, warm and solid.

  
For a few minutes, they just watched the city.

  
“I love you,” Ven’fir said suddenly, giving Malavai a squeeze.

  
The human glanced his way, fond. “I love you too,” he murmured, “More than I can put into words.”

  
For some reason, that set him off and he fought not to have a moment there on that balcony, watching the city they both called home.

  
He pulled away for a moment, and Malavai turned curiously to see what he was doing.

  
“You mean the galaxy to me,” Ven’fir said, heartfelt. Suddenly, he had forgotten his grand speech and the words just came tumbling out.

  
“You’re more than my Captain or my lover. You’re my partner. You make me feel warm when I see you, like I’m coming home. I feel safe when I’m with you, like I don’t need to be anyone but me. I can laugh with you, cry if I need to, and when we argue it doesn’t feel like the end of the world.”

  
Malavai was watching him with wide blue eyes, and Ven’fir just about had the presence of mind to attempt to reach into his pocket for the ring.

  
“I don’t know what the future holds but I want you in mine. I want to share everything with you, because you’re _everything_ to me.”

  
He didn’t feel the box.

  
The ring was _gone_.

  
Oh Force.

  
He couldn’t find the fucking _ring_ -

  
“Other pocket.”

  
He glanced up, blinking. Malavai was smiling fondly, a little awkward.

  
“It's in your other pocket.” He repeated, flushing.  
Clumsily, Ven’fir patted his other pocket and there it was, just where he had left it.

  
Taking it out, he looked at his partner and felt his brain ping as everything fell into place.

  
“You- you planned this?” He managed, and Malavai went bright pink.

  
“No!” he quickly defended. “No, you planned it all. I just... helped. A little.”

  
He seemed quite embarrassed, but laughter bubbled up inside Ven’fir and some of it escaped.

  
“You left the measurements for me, didn’t you? And fueled up the speeder, and got Vette to tell me your ring size. You got us the reservation here too, right?”  
Malavai flushed deeper at being caught, wringing his hands.

  
“You wanted to make it so lovely,” he explained awkwardly, “But uh- You might not have... thought it all through. So, I just helped things along a little bit.”

  
Ven’fir felt such a rush of heady affection, that he laughed and pulled Malavai in for a hug. The poor man hadn’t expected it, and it nearly knocked him off balance. Ven’fir held onto him, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

  
“You’re so perfect.” He murmured, and felt Malavai relax into the hug.

  
When he pulled away, he was smiling even as his cheeks stayed pink.

  
Ven’fir grinned and reached into his pocket, the correct one, and pulled out the box.

  
Gently reaching for Malavai's hand, he removed the glove covering it.

  
It was an Imperial tradition for the partner to remove their lovers’ glove before proposing, and with the way Malavai arranged his hand for him, he knew it.

  
Ven’fir brought Malavai's hand up and pressed a fond kiss to his knuckles before lining up the ring with his finger.

  
“Malavai Quinn, you wonderful, ridiculous man, will you marry me?” he asked with a giddy smile, feeling laughter inside himself again. This whole situation was so silly and perfect, he couldn’t contain his grin.  
Malavai, blushing pink and looking quite overwhelmed, returned his breathless smile.

  
“Yes, of course I will.” He said simply, and Ven’fir could swear that he looked a little damp around the eyes as Ven’fir gently slipped the ring into his finger.

  
Neither of them could contain themselves and Malavai was the first to break, pulling the Sith into a kiss that Ven’fir delightedly returned.

  
They spent several moments like that, pressing soft, intimate kisses to each other, staying as close as they could.

  
When they finally pulled away, Malavai had his hands on Ven’fir’s jacket and the Sith had settled his own hands on Malavai's waist.

  
Both of them were smiling and a little breathless, affection keeping them close.

  
Ven'fir had the strangest urge to thank him.

  
Malavai moved his head and kissed him again, sweet and chaste. It didn’t last long, but he looked so wonderfully happy that Ven’fir didn’t mind. His blue eyes were bright and his cheeks pink, the silver at his temples catching the light and the lines around his eyes crinkled with joy. His smile, rare at the best of times, was shy and delighted and so lovely it hurt.

  
Eventually they had to return to their table, both to grab their coats and to have a fortifying glass of wine before they left. Well, Malavai would. Ven’fir was driving, so as to give the Captain a free pass to drink what he liked for once.

  
As they stepped inside, someone began to clap.

Then another and another until the whole establishment was looking their way and applauding.

Apparently, someone had noticed them on the balcony.

  
Malavai was quite still, and he leaned into Ven’fir slightly, his smile having become a little fixed.

  
“Did you plan this?” he asked under his breath.

  
Ven’fir, baffled, smiled for the people looking at them. “Nope, you?”

  
“No.”

  
One of the staff who looked to be the manager came over with a brilliant smile on her face.

  
“Darth Venator, Captain.” She greeted with a deep bow. “Congratulations.”

  
Ven’fir, taking the lead, flashed her a grin.

  
“Thank you. It was a little bit of a fumble, but I got there eventually.”

  
He shot a wink at Malavai, who looked amused.

  
The manager seemed to melt, and one of her staff came over with a bottle of something that looked expensive.

  
She pressed it into Malavai's hands.

  
“A gift, from us.” She said with another bow as Malavai thanked her. “Congratulations again.”

  
They thanked her and the staff before collecting their things under the watchful eye of the entire restaurant, and heading for the door.

  
Ven’fir played the crowd like an expert, and had them smiling and clapping again as they left, the Sith waving to them all.

  
As soon as they were in the speeder, hidden by tinted windows, Malavai blew out a breath between pursed lips, his body going slack.

  
Ven’fir glanced over to him

  
“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

  
Malavai looked over, eyes tired but bright. “Never better.” He said simply, and took Ven’fir's hand in his own. The ring on his other hand contrasted with his pale skin and Ven’fir couldn’t stop looking at it. It looked so much better on his finger.

  
Ven’fir felt his smile widen, and a heavy warmth settle in his belly.

  
He congratulated himself on a job mostly well done.

  
It had been so much better the second time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas/non-denominational winter holiday celebration! ;)


	39. Of course it was illegal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pirate AU!
> 
> For DarkShadeless, who egged me on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small disclaimer to say this is not supposed to be realistic. At all.
> 
> My knowledge of pirates and pirate related activities is limited to watching Pirates of the Caribbean about ten years ago, and playing half of Black Flag before I got distracted.
> 
> So, please base any historical inconsistencies on my complete lack of proper research.

“Can you smell that?”

Ven’fir breathed in deeply, feeling the wind tease his hair. The air smelled like salt and heat, of tar and aged wood. The spray of salt was everywhere, tang blossoming on his tongue and stinging his eyes.

Underneath it all though, was the scent of scorched timber and gunpowder.

“She’s limping home.” He muttered, bringing his spyglass to his eye, watching as the smudge on the horizon became a grainy outline of a ship, smoke billowing from her starboard side. The sun was beating down on them from a brilliantly blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. The wind was whipping at their sails.

He grinned and turned to Vette, who was watching him with a raised eyebrow. Her thin arms were crossed over her chest, and the twin tails of her hair were thrown over her shoulders.

“Run out the full canvas.” He called to her over the sound of the waves breaking over the bow of the _Fury_.

Dimly, he heard her relay his orders to the crew, and felt a bloom of satisfaction when he heard the sails unfurling behind him as he stood at the prow, the hat on his head staying fast despite the wind.

“There’s nowhere on this ocean you can run from me,” he murmured, his eyes set on the unfortunate schooner attempting to reach safety. They didn’t know it yet, but they were _his_.

The _Fury_ danced at the command of its helmsman, and soon they were close enough to the other ship to see the little ants of her crew. It was a navy vessel, clearly having been through one hell of a fight. The lack of a pursuer told him that she had been the victor, though at a heavy cost.

They had definitely seen the _Fury_ by now, although the ship did not seem inclined to pause. He wasn’t being especially subtle, so the Captain was either stupid or oblivious. Perfect.

With a grin that would have put a hyena to shame, he held up a gloved fist and felt the tension in the wind. The anticipation felt like the air before a storm, charged and heavy.

They were close enough now for him to see the name of the unfortunate ship, emblazoned on the stern.

The _Glory_.

What a lovely name for a lovely prize.

He brought down his hand, tasting adrenaline.

“Raise the colours.” He ordered, and there was a resounding cheer from his crew, sounding more like the baying of a hungry pack of animals.

He supposed that wasn’t far wrong.

Their flag caught the wind and let fly, the leering skull above two outward facing cutlasses filling him with pride.

The flag was black, showing his willingness to give quarter if any of his marks chose to surrender, while the cutlasses were both to show his readiness to resort to violence, and a nod to his habit of using two at once.

He had a red version too, for when he wanted to let his victims know that he would give no quarter. That flag was not used often.

He grinned, resting his hand on the hilt of one of his weapons.

His pistol, inlaid with gold and pearl, sat at his other hip, partially obscured by his resplendent frock coat. Black, of course, looked good on anyone. He took great care of his appearance, moreso than most did. Vette always teased him that half his share of the loot went on hair products and fancy soaps.

He raised his spyglass again and wet his lips in anticipation. He always loved this part.

He watched the figures on the ship for a moment, waiting for the exact moment they spotted the Roger.

Fear.

He could _taste_ it.

With a click, his stowed his spyglass and hurried down to the deck.

“Men!” he called, casting a hawkish eye over his crew. “Cripple her, but don’t sink her.” He ordered, voice carrying. “Bring me that ship!”

He watched them hurry to carry out his commands, running out the guns and arming themselves.

He sent a wink at Vette, who grinned back.

The thief wasn’t necessarily always comfortable with the life they led, but she didn’t seem inclined to stop. Her deft fingers caressed locks and convinced them they didn’t need their keys to open and spill their secrets.

The _Fury_ pulled up alongside the _Glory_ , and he saw that the damage to the ship was already severe. Frankly, he was surprised that she was even still sailing.

She had already taken the edge of a broadside to her starboard side, and one of her masts was snapped and half ruined. No wonder the _Fury_ had been able to catch up with them so easily.

The sailors were a panicked blur, and he wrinkled his nose. What a mess. Surely the officers on board would corral this menagerie into something useful? Perhaps they were all dead.

They weren’t even loading their guns.

Snapping out his spyglass again, he scanned the deck. A splash of crimson had him homing in on it, watching as a man emerged from below the deck, shouting.

He couldn’t make out any facial features, but he seemed to be… bellowing orders? He wasn’t a Captain, not with that uniform, but he seemed to be one of the few actually doing anything but losing his shit.

Ven’fir’s eyebrows rose when he saw the man grab one of the shellshocked deckhands by his shirt and pull him close. A snarled order later and the man was falling over himself to pick up a weapon and to arm as many of his mates as he could find metal for.

Huh.

He would probably have to kill that one first.

He made a mental note to do so as soon as they boarded. It wouldn’t do to have someone _competent_ left to challenge him, now would it?

Before he could even give the order to fire, a white flag popped up from near the stern, and Ven’fir blinked. They were… surrendering now?

That officer did _not_ look like he had been preparing to surrender. He shrugged. He supposed it didn’t matter.

The first step onto a prize was always so sweet.

His men had secured the deck for him, and his boots rapped against the wooden planks as he strode onboard.

His hat was firmly on his head, and he could feel the peacock feather in it catching the wind. He had just put a new one in, the old one having become rather ratty. Such was the cost of looking good.

A Captain was nothing without his flair, after all.

He grinned at the cowering deckhands. An officer or two was there, but all looked young and terrified.

Vette trailed behind him, watchful and slight. If anyone thought that they could take a swing at the waif-like young woman at his side, they would soon find out just why he trusted her to take care of herself.

He made a beeline for where his men had cutlasses and pistols pointed at something _quite_ odd.

Several navy officers seemed to be holding someone captive, their appearances dishevelled but otherwise unharmed.

The man currently being held down by three of them was in the garb of an officer also, and he was struggling even as he was held fast. An older man, older than Ven’fir would have credited with captaining a ship, stood behind them.

Ven’fir, ignoring the, frankly baffling, goings on, grinned at the old man.

“The Captain of this fine vessel, I presume?” he ventured, one beringed hand on his cutlass.

The old man nodded, eyes shrewd and handlebar moustache drooping in the sea air.

“Captain Broysc.” He introduced himself, haughty. “And you are a _pirate.”_

Amused, Ven’fir inclined his head.

“Did the Roger give it away or was it how I’ve captured your ship?” he asked.

Broysc ignored him.

“Parlay.” He snapped, as though he was annoyed by the very idea of speaking to a _pirate._

Smile widening, Ven’fir nodded.

“We surrender to you,” the old Captain said quickly. “We are no match for you. This _officer_ ,” he spat the word like it was poison, “Disobeyed my orders to surrender. As a sign of… trust, he is yours.”

Ven’fir raised an eyebrow and studied the man that had since gone very still.

With a leer, he unsheathed his cutlass and watched as the man tensed, probably thinking he was to be executed then and there.

Instead, Ven’fir gently rested the tip of his blade under the mans chin, forcing him to look up.

Blue eyes were incensed and _oh-_ he liked how fierce they were.

He was clean shaven and his hat had fallen off, blood and salt staining his face. His lip was curled in a sneer, and he looked at Ven’fir with such icy fury that Ven’fir thought about keeping him. He was _gorgeous,_ even with the ridiculous uniform he wore. Finely boned like an aristocrat, cheekbones sharp enough to cut oneself on, and storm blue eyes framed by dark lashes.

_Lovely._

Still, one didn’t get as far as he had done by thinking with his cock.

He was a work in progress on that front, he supposed.

“And what, exactly, would I do with him?” he drawled, and Broysc gave a thin-lipped smile, jerking his head to his men.

As one, they led the thrashing figure to the side of the ship, where part of the railing had been blown off.

They held him so close to the edge that they were the only thing keeping him from falling into the ocean. Still, he struggled.

“As a show of faith?” Broysc wheedled, and before Ven’fir could say anything, one of the men gave an almighty shove, and the man toppled over the side.

Ven’fir heard him cry out before he hit the water, and sighed. How wasteful.

“So?” Broysc wheedled, “May we leave with our lives? You may take our cargo.”

Given that Ven’fir didn’t know what was even on the ship, only that it had been an easy target, some explanation was required.

Broysc talked a lot, and Ven’fir’s cutlass hand was getting itchy by the time he reached the end, even after they moved to the Captain's quarters.

Ven’fir could hear his men rounding up prisoners and generally getting things done, and he occasionally heard Vette's voice rise above the rest.

Wait.

Something was wrong.

He was sure Broysc had posted a guard outside-

A wet noise had him turning and slipping into a combative stance, one cutlass drawn and his hand flexing over his pistol.

Metal met metal and Ven’fir was dumbfounded to see the man that had been thrown overboard with a blade in his hands, bearing down on him.

He was dripping wet, his shirt sticking to his skin in the absence of his crimson jacket. His hair, visible now, was black and stood in messy, damp spikes. Small cuts and wounds covered his visible skin, and he held his body strangely, as though something in his side caused him pain.

Broysc was screeching something, but Ven’fir ignored him. He had half a mind to gut the old man and screw being _nice._ Vette asked a lot.

“Who are _you?”_ he asked instead, a little breathless. How _fascinating._

“Lieutenant Malavai Quinn, at your _service.”_ He snarled the words, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

With a grunt, Ven’fir kept the straining blade away from himself.

“Captain Ven’fir Polaris,” he said with a charming grin. “A _pleasure.”_

Quinn seemed slightly taken aback by the filthy purr of his final word, but didn’t relent.

Instead, he pushed harder, causing Ven’fir to put a foot back to brace himself. Then, with barely a twitch showing what he was about to do, the officer pushed hard to make Ven’fir stumble, giving him the opportunity to attack with his blade.

Grinning like a shark and feeling adrenaline making his fingers tingle, Ven’fir threw himself into the fight.

Oh, but he hadn’t had such fun in _months._

The Lieutenant was good with a sword, but his injuries didn’t help him. He was clever though, so clever that Ven’fir was finding it hard to keep up with him. Oh, he outstripped the man by leagues when it came to swordsmanship and pure strength, but sometimes it was only by the skin of his teeth did he figure out what the man was doing before he did it.

He fought _dirty_ too, and Ven’fir felt his smile widen.

Metal clashed against metal and Ven’fir couldn’t help a delighted laugh when his foe aimed a knee at his groin as they scuffled. He stopped laughing when he dodged straight into a sucker punch.

How very ignoble.

He liked that.

Then, as quick as it began, it ended.

A shot rang out, and Quinn crumpled, a look of surprise on his face.

Ven’fir whirled around and saw Broysc, his hand on an elaborate pistol, arm wavering but his expression feral.

“Scabs,” he hissed. “All scabs!”

His lip curling, Ven’fir took two steps, raised his cutlass, and cleanly cut off the man’s arm that held the offending weapon.

His shriek was ear splitting, but Ven’fir wasn’t looking in his direction. A groan from the floor had him bending down to inspect the fallen Lieutenant.

The badly aimed shot had hit his arm, and blood was pooling around him.

Broysc was clearly a _terrible_ shot.

How helpful.

The Lieutenant shivered and cursed, wide blue eyes fixed on Ven’fir and flickering to the screaming Broysc.

Ven’fir grinned at him, and offered his hand to the man to help him up.

“Come on,” he offered. “You’re the most interesting thing on this ship, and no one here seems to have done you any favours. How about a... sideways career move?”

Lieutenant Quinn stated at him for a moment, before he grasped Ven’fir’s hand. The pirate smiled and made to haul him up, but found himself being yanked downwards with surprising strength.

He toppled, his knees hitting the floor as his arms pin wheeled to keep his balance.

Something hit his face with a sickening crunch, and blinding pain bloomed in his nose. He cursed the air blue, stumbling back and bringing a hand up to his face as he blinked spots from his vision.

That- that fucking _bastard_ had _head butted_ him.

He gingerly poked at his nose and was rewarded with another wave of pain and his vision flicking dark, and he spat out another curse.

Lieutenant Quinn sneered up at him, baring bloody teeth.

“Fuck you,” he rasped. He sent a glare to where Broysc was whimpering in the corner, clutching the stump of his hand. “And fuck him too.”

Ven’fir, scowling and wiping blood from his face, spat a red goblet of saliva onto the planks.

“If you broke my fucking nose, I’ll kill you.” He grunted, eyes watering.

Someone was banging on the doors, and he could hear Vette shouting.

He aimed a look at the fallen Lieutenant, who gave him a grim smile.

“Killed the guard and locked the doors.” He coughed.

Ven’fir raised his eyebrows.

“How ruthless of you,” he grunted, unlocking the door.

Immediately, Vette burst in and began firing questions at him.

Soon, her glare settled on the Lieutenant, who sent one right back.

“Shackle him,” Ven’fir ordered, surprising himself. He would have killed men for less, but something about this one made it seem a shame to end him. “Throw him in the brig of the _Fury._ ”

“Have you finished with the ship?” he asked, and Vette seemed to realise he wasn’t in the mood of jokes.

She nodded. “Yep. Most surrendered. A few tried to attack us, but we put them down. Did he do that?” she asked, pointing to his nose.

He grunted. “Yeah.”

Vette's eyebrows raised. “Huh. I’m surprised you haven’t killed him.”

Ven’fir shrugged, watching as some of his men bound the Lieutenant.

The man was injured, possibly severely.

“Patch him up.” He snapped. “I don’t want him dying in my brig.”

Vette wrinkled her nose. “I’ll give it a go, but we need a new doctor.” She reminded him and he grunted again. Their doctor had ended up dead after a nasty run in with a magistrate that ended with the good doctor swinging from a rope.

They hadn’t been able to find a replacement yet.

“Find this ships doctor, if it has one. Get him to fix my fucking nose, then tend to the wounded.” He ordered.

There was a rasping laugh, and he turned his attention to the Lieutenant.

“Right here.” He said with vicious humour.

Ven’fir blinked.

“You’re an _officer.”_

Quinn shrugged with one arm; his hands bound by heavy shackles. The weight pulling against his injured arm must have been agony.

“Our doctor died three days out of port. Broysc refused to turn back, and I trained as a doctor before joining the navy.”

He gave Ven’fir a nasty look.

“Let me take a closer look at that nose, _Captain_.”

Ven’fir scowled, wiping away more blood.

“You're not getting anywhere near my nose,” he grumbled, and Vette laughed.

“Throw him some supplies, let him fix himself up.” Ven’fir ordered. “Give him some drink too, to numb the pain.”

He smirked at his captive. “We're not barbarians, after all.”

Quinn sneered as he was led away, and Ven’fir mused on what to do next.

He didn’t technically _need_ to do anything, considering he had the cargo the _Glory_ had been hauling, and it wasn’t in any shape to persue them.

With a little grin, he headed for the door, leaving Broysc whimpering on the floor.

“A pleasure, Captain.” He said with a grin, tipping his hat to the man.

Turning to his men, he jerked his head.

“Take aboard any who swear to us,” he snapped. “Kill the rest. Leave the Captain with his dead ship.”

Without any further word, he turned and strode out, blood on his face and a sneer on his lips.

He thought about his captive and his nose twinged.

_Fuck._

* * *

The captive, it turned out, ended up quite high on his list of ‘things to be annoyed about'.

Ven’fir didn’t want to kill him since he was so interesting, but the man was also such an abominable _prick_ that Ven’fir felt his blood boil within minutes of them talking.

The wound on his arm was healing nicely, the bullet having gone straight through and not hit anything important. It had been a terrible shot, which was good.

Ven’fir had, eventually, let him take a look at his nose. Vette had been there with a pistol to Quinn’s head, and the man had smirked at him as he cleanly pulled the cartilage back into place. Ven’fir had bitten down on the rag in his mouth and cursed up a storm, but at least his nose wasn’t _broken_.

He had wiped away involuntarily tears from his cheeks and inspected the man in front of him, Vette's pistol pressed against the side of his head.

He looked tired and _awful._

He wore only the remains of his tattered uniform, his hair a tangled mess of black. Dry, he saw that he was going silver at the temples and wondered how old the man was.

Stubble now clung to his jaw, and Ven’fir decided that it suited him. The beauty mark on his cheekbone made his face interesting.

“A doctor and an officer,” he murmured, watching Quinn with interest. “That is not something you see every day.”

The Lieutenant inclined his head, agreeing. He said nothing.

Ven’fir, struck by a whim as he so often was, waved Vette away. She gave him an odd look and one that he knew to mean ‘be careful' and left as she was bid.

The officer raised an eyebrow.

“Sending your pet away?” he asked, blue eyes cool.

Ven’fir shook his head. “First mate.” He corrected.

He stood, and rolled his shoulders. They sat in his cabin, and the noise of the ship seemed far away with the doors closed. He wasn’t wearing his coat, the heavy garment feeling too oppressive in the warmth of his cabin. A necklace, gold and leather, disappeared into his shirt, and his fingers glinted in the candlelight, rings weathered and many. His ears were pierced through with yet more jewellery, dark curls half hiding polished gold.

It was risky, being alone with the Lieutenant, but the man’s leg was bound by a chain to a beam and he didn’t seem to have the energy to fight.

Ven’fir poured a finger of amber liquid into a glass, and did the same for another. He offered one to the officer, who looked surprised.

“I’ll assume you’re not going to poison me?” he said carefully as he accepted the glass, standing up to reach.

Ven’fir chuckled.

“Why would I? If I wanted to kill you, I would shoot you. Or behead you.” He said pleasantly, taking a sip.

It burned and he relished the feeling.

Quinn seemed to allow this, and picked up the glass. He took a sip, and smiled.

“It's been a long time since I had anything this good,” he remarked, incongruous in his tattered clothes and shackles, surrounded by the comfort of Ven’fir's cabin.

Ven’fir finished his drink and poured another. “There's merit to being Captain,” he chuckled. “I get first pick of my prizes.”

Quinn eyed him. “Am I a prize?” He asked bluntly, expression calculating.

Ven’fir's grin widened.

“Of course. I only take the best for myself.” He purred, sidling over. Quinn watched him.

Ven’fir moved into his space, enamoured with this fascinating man.

Men, women, he didn’t mind who he took to his bed as long as he enjoyed them.

On his ship, his rule was absolute. Anyone who took umbrage to his choices of lover got a stern word from Vette. The second time, Ven’fir would see them whipped.

He doled out punishments himself.

He didn’t take pleasure from it like some Captain’s would, and he didn’t dish them out for minor infractions.

Still, letting someone else do the dirty work felt wrong somehow.

He grinned, close enough to see the blue of the Lieutenant’s eyes reflect the candlelight.

The man's mouth was slightly parted, and Ven’fir very much wanted to kiss him-

Something sharp pressed against his groin.

He froze.

Quinn gave a little sneer, sharp and mean.

“Shall we see what wins, Captain? My needle, or your _needle?”_

Ven’fir snarled at him, body staying quite still as the large curved suture needle from the doctor’s bag that was on the floor pressed into the fabric of his trousers. Quinn punctuated his words with a press of his hand.

Quinn's eyes were flinty, and Ven’fir wondered what he thought he was going to accomplish, considering he was still shackled and on the open sea.

With a hiss, he jabbed a hand against Quinn's healing ribs, knocking the needle from his hand as he winced. They fell to the floor, tussling.

Ven’fir had him pinned in moments, as he was both substantially heavier than the officer, but was not injured and hadn’t been languishing in the brig for two days.

Quinn bared his teeth up at him, defiant.

Ven’fir started to laugh.

“You know, you’re the most frustrating prize I’ve ever taken,” he murmured, “And yet I couldn’t imagine giving you up. You’re entirely too interesting.”

“I am _not_ a prize,” the man grunted, storm blue eyes furious.

Ven’fir smiled.

“I can understand that,” he allowed. “How would you like to be a comrade, instead?”

Quinn's eyes were wide, apparently surprised that he would offer again instead of just striking or killing him.

“No. I’m an officer of the king’s navy-"

“A navy who tried to have you _killed.”_ Ven’fir corrected sharply, “Twice.”

Quinn averted his eyes, his body tired and not even struggling any more. He was warm, and Ven’fir really couldn’t complain about having him pressed so close.

“Get off me,” he murmured, “Or I’ll head butt you again.”

Ven’fir laughed, and let him up, keeping a careful watch on his hands. He was a wiley one.

Quinn stood, awkward and standoffish.

He stood like a military man, fussy and prim even dressed in rags.

Ven'fir grinned at him, and watched in delight as annoyed pink spread over Quinn’s cheeks, his pale skin making the colour stand out.

“Avert your eyes,” the officer snapped, blushing.

Ven’fir leered at him.

“You don’t like the way I look at you?” he asked, keeping his gaze lascivious.

“You look at me like- like-"

“Like I want to pin you to the nearest flat surface and fuck you until you’re moaning for it?” Ven’fir finished for him, watching him for his reaction. His blush deepened, and blue eyes were embarrassed.

He wrung his hands in a nervous habit, and Ven’fir noted how fussy he was when he wasn’t threatening him with needles or head butting him.

“You- have you no shame?” the officer sputtered, mortified. “I’m a man, and so are you.”

“I noticed.” Ven’fir said with a wry smile. “Does that matter? I’m not secret about my affections for both men and women. No one on my ship would say anything. If they did, I’d have them whipped.”

Quinn averted his eyes, and Ven’fir decided to test something.

“So, is it the idea you have issue with, is it just me?”

He stepped closer, and the again. Quinn backed up until his back hit the wall, and Ven’fir was almost pressed flush with him.

The captain noted how the officer’s eyes kept dropping to his mouth before quickly looking up.

Still rather wary of potentially painful escape attempts, he settled his hand on Quinn's waist, the other coming up to cup his cheek.

The officer’s breathing was coming shallow and fast, his skin flushed and the line of his throat was inviting as he swallowed.

Unconsciously, he leaned into the curve of Ven’fir’s body, his warmth pleasant and solid.

So probably _not_ just Ven’fir, then.

Gently, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth, soft and with more care than many would have expected from him.

Quinn seemed frozen, and it was just long enough that Ven’fir feared that he had made a mistake and had caused him distress.

Then, the officer seemed to thaw, and gingerly kissed him back.

It was... sweet.

Innocent, almost.

Ven’fir wondered if he was the first man the Lieutenant had ever kissed.

He probably was.

Eventually Ven’fir pulled away, but stayed close enough that their noses bumped. He grinned at the officer, who was bright pink and a little dazed.

“Are you alright?” he murmured, and Quinn's eyes met his.

“I’d like to go back to the brig now, please.” He whispered, tense.

Ven’fir blinked.

“What-"

Quinn looked away, pulling back.

Ven’fir frowned, but something clicked in his head.

“It's alright if you liked it.” He said simply. “I won’t shout it from the crowd next. I’m not a gossip.”

That was a bold faced lie, but he was more than willing to kept quiet about what they had done if it kept the Lieutenant happy.

Quinn seemed to curl in on himself, even as he stood ramrod straight.

“I would prefer the brig,” he muttered tersely. “After all, _you’re_ not there.”

“No.” He said, folding his arms. “You’re going to serve as our ships doctor, at least for now.”

Quinn's eyes narrowed.

“You would let me have access to a doctors bag?” He asked, pushing. “What if my hand slips...?

Ven’fir's lip curled. “Then I’ll whip you raw before I throw you overboard with a chain around your ankles. I think you value your life more than you want to kill a deckhand.”

Quinn seemed to study him for a moment, before he nodded.

“As you say, _Captain_.”

Ven’fir surveyed him, interested.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” he marvelled.

Quinn looked quite tired. “I should,” he allowed. “You're a _pirate_.” He paused. “But you’ve been... not completely awful. So no, I don’t hate you.”

Ven’fir digested that, and nodded.

“You’ll eat with me tomorrow.” He said suddenly. “I want to talk with you more.”

Quinn looked baffled, as though he wasn’t quite sure why anyone would want to speak with him.

Ven’fir grinned at him.

“You’re very interesting. No matter what you think, I rather like you.” He admitted easily, “Is it so surprising that I want to spend more time with you?”

Quinn’s suspicious look didn’t subside.

“I am exceedingly dull, and not a good conversationalist. You should look for entertainment elsewhere.” He said stiffly, something faintly bitter in his voice.

“I don’t want a storyteller or an escort,” Ven’fir shook his head. “If I did, I would have one. You’re a prickly bastard, but I think that just adds to your charm.” He said with a roguish wink, and the officer glared at him.

Quinn looked away, nose in the air.

“And you’re a lascivious criminal,” he snapped, “With more power than sense, if you’re letting me tend to you.”

Ven’fir laughed, stepping back.

“Maybe.” He allowed. “Maybe I just want you to put your hands on me.”

Quinn’s blush shouldn’t have interested him so much, but the indignation coupled with the pink on his cheeks was an amusing and enticing combination. It really was sweet, he had to admit, that the officer was clearly unused to attention of this sort, and even _more_ unused to it being from a man. He was certainly not unaffected, and Ven’fir privately thought that Quinn was probably far more attracted to men than he liked to admit. The earlier kiss had been shy and greedy.

“You agreed to work as my doctor, so I’ll give you a little something.” He said graciously. “Stay here. I’ll have a bath drawn for you, and some proper food brought.”

Quinn just stood there, awkward and confused.

Ven’fir took a little pity on him.

“Sit.” He prompted, pointing to a sturdy chair.

Quinn did so, sitting stiffly with his hands in his lap.

“Why are you being kind?” he asked suddenly, the look in his eyes wary. “You could have put a knife under my tongue and forced me.”

Ven’fir wasn’t sure his he was talking about the work, or Ven’fir's interest in him. The latter made him feel uncomfortable.

“Why? This costs me nothing.” He said simply, “I don’t _enjoy_ inflicting suffering for it’s own sake, so I don’t see why I should resort to that when it’s not necessary.”

Quinn looked at him oddly. “You are a strange pirate.” He murmured. “You’re not quite the brute I expected.”

Ven’fir scoffed.

“I’m a strange man in general. Do you know Port Winstead, to the east?” he asked, and Quinn nodded. “My father is the governor.”

Quinn stared, and Ven’fir laughed.

“So no, I wouldn’t call myself a ‘brute'.” He continued, “Dear old mother and father tell everyone they never had a son, especially not one that ran away to sea.”

The officer blinked at him like he was trying to figure out a particularly scintillating puzzle.

“Why did you run away?” he asked, tilting his head.

Ven’fir smirked and waged a finger at the other man.

“You’ll get that story from me if you agree to have dinner with me,” he wheedled, “Tit for tat, yes?”

This officer rolled his eyes, but Ven’fir saw the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“I suppose I shall have to, won’t I?” he murmured.

Ven’fir smiled.

* * *

Dinner had started out awkward, but once Ven’fir had gently pushed the other man, things became a lot more warm.

He looked infinitely better now, clean and dressed in spare clothes to replace his tattered uniform.

The shackle was still on his leg because Ven’fir didn’t trust him in the _slightest_ , but otherwise he looked good.

He ate quickly, as polite as any noble Ven’fir had ever met, and Ven’fir couldn’t help watching his hands.

He had nice hands, and seemed to be trying not to fidget with them as they shared wine.

Ven’fir unearthed his sense of humour too, and it was as dry and biting as he had expected. He liked that.

One dinner turned into another, which turned into a daily occurrence. Ven’fir traded stories for talk, but he needn’t have bothered.

Quinn seemed like he wanted to hate him, but he also quite clearly didn’t. He was reserved and aloof, but seemed to break out of his shell when given the opportunity to talk. Ven’fir got the impression he wasn’t used to being included, let alone listened to.

Which, in his rather biased opinion, was a _crime_.

 The man was frightfully clever.

Contact to popular opinion, Ven’fir wasn’t a _moron_ , but Quinn left him in the dust.

The man had a voracious appetite for learning, and it was a joy to watch him devour a book Ven’fir lent him, or to watch him nod with a smile on his face while Ven’fir talked about the places that he had been.

With Vette's aid, he solicited the opinions of the crew on Quinn's performance as a doctor.

Apparently, they were glad for his presence after so much time spent suffering Vette's impatient and haphazard care. However, it was also noted that his bedside manner was akin to that of a  shark with toothache.

Ven’fir was a little bit in love.

They hadn’t kissed again, but they become more and more comfortable in eachothers space, and Ven’fir had taken to leaving lingering touches and looks in private, making no secret of his flirting.

He was much more at ease with that too, Ven’fir’s barrage of winks and flirtatious quips netting him either a snarky response or rolled eyes instead of the blushing and jumpiness.

Still, Ven’fir would have rather had Quinn's hands on him in another way, as opposed to sitting sheepishly in a chair in his cabin, his eye swollen and the nasty cut on his cheek stinging.

Quinn fussed over him, his expression grim and irritated. Ven’fir muttered complaints as forceful hands moved his head to the side.

“Be quiet,” Quinn snapped, “Let me tend to you, or you can do it _yourself_.”

Ven’fir wisely decided that silence was probably for the best.

Eventually, Quinn was done. He used the now pink tinged rag to wipe his hands, before washing them in the bowl of water on the table.

“There, I’ve cleaned the cut and removed all the splinters I can find.” He said, clipped.

Ven’fir rolled his neck and heard a faint crack.

Shuddering, he stood and gingerly touched his face.

Quinn smacked his hand lightly, glaring. “Do not touch.” He warned, and Ven’fir sheepishly dropped his hand.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Quinn's cheeks went pink.

“I’m only doing my job,” he muttered, “Which I am quite literally bound to doing.”

He punctuated his words with a shake of his leg, sending the chain of his shackle slithering over the floor.

Ven’fir looked at it guiltily.

“I... I don’t want you to go.” He admitted lamely.

Quinn paused in his tidying, and he swallowed painfully.

His eyes were incongruously soft, despite the tired line of his mouth.

“I’m not yours to keep,” he murmured.

Ven’fir knew that.

“You could be,” he offered, voice quiet for once.

Quinn’s blue eyes were wide, his hands still.

“I...” he began before clearing his throat. “I won’t be a pet.” he murmured, “Not even yours. I’m not something to keep locked in your cabin, wrapped in furs and pretty things, happy to sit in a cage until you have desire for me.”

Ven’fir swallowed painfully.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Quinn looked at him sadly.

“Wouldn’t you?”

His pointed tone cut deep.

The chain on his leg made a metallic sound as he shifted his weight.

“You’re my prisoner,” Ven’fir muttered. “It makes sense that I-"

“You don’t treat me like one.” Quinn corrected, “And you don’t really want me to be one at all.”

Ven’fir sighed. “I want you to stay with me.” He repeated, “Not because I want you to attend my every need, or because I want a body warming my bed every night, but because you can be so much more than the navy would let you be.” He said, impassioned. “And I want you to taste that freedom with me.”

Quinn looked quite blown away by his little speech, and Ven’fir wondered if he had gone too far.

“I’ll... leave you be.” He murmured, realising that the Lieutenant would need some time to think.

He offered a smile but he could feel that it wasn’t convincing.

“Thank again, for fixing me up. I’ll think twice about climbing rickety old bridges I find.”

Quinn just nodded, and just about managed a fragile looking smile.

* * *

Ven’fir had always enjoyed a good fight.

Fists or blades, he was quick and brutal with either, and not too shabby with a pistol.

No amount of skill or energy could best eight to one odds, however.

He parried and riposted, dodged and struck, but it was only a matter of time before he ended up with a blade scoring an agonising line over his back, sending him stumbling forwards into a grapple that he was destined to lose the moment his opponent began to dig his fingers into the fresh wound.

Crying out like a wounded animal, he struggled and spat curses until they were forced to gag him, shackling his hands and removing his weapons.

They had only been docked for a few hours, and no one was supposed to know who they were. Yet, here he was, arrested with his ship impounded and his crew in the cells. He had probably been in worse scrapes, but he couldn’t think of any.

The governor, a heavyset man with a wig so voluminous that it almost obscured his face, looked him up and down, lip curled. Ven’fir had been removed from his cell, only to be marched into a receiving room and onto his knees.

Ven’fir snarled at him and was rewarded by one of the officers yanking on the gag in his mouth, jerking his head back like he was an animal.

He felt like one, right now.

“Young Ven’fir Polaris,” the governor murmured, “And to think, your parents are such decent people. How awful, to have a son like _you_. They call you the _Wrath of the Sea,_ but how the mightily have fallen.”

Ven’fir just glared up at him.

His back burned like fire, and dark curls hung damp in front of his face. He was dirty and exhausted, and his clothes were torn and stained with blood and salt. He looked very out of place in the immaculate opulence of the governor’s place, in front of the silk-garbed man himself.

What Ven’fir wouldn’t give to rob him blind.

“Sir!”

A young guard opened the door with more force than was probably decent, but his wide-eyed look of interest was of more concern to everyone present.

“The governor was turning puce under his powder, and the guard hastened to explain. “Sir, they had a prisoner aboard!”

Ven’fir’s stomach dropped.

_Malavai._

And there he was, walking in with his head high like he belonged there. Ven’fir wanted to call out to him, even as he tasted the musty gag in his mouth.

The officer didn’t spare him a glance, coming to a halt in front of the governor.

“Lieutenant Malavai Quinn, sir,” he introduced formally, saluting.

The governor appraised him.

“Lieutenant Quinn, was it? You have been held captive on that ship?” he asked, one bejewelled hand coming up to fix the angle of his cravat.

Quinn nodded primly.

“Yessir, I was captured after the _Glory_ was attacked three months ago. We fended off the first attack, but we could not outrun a second.” He sounded sombre. “I… my comrades…” he glanced away, swallowing. “They were killed, sir.”

“Oh, how awful,” the governor agreed, dismissive. “I heard about the looting of the _Glory._ Captain Broysc told me all about it. A hero, that man. Stayed alive through sheer will, long enough to be picked up by a passing merchant ship.” He gave a piggy, saccharine smile. “You’re lucky to have had such a Captain.”

Quinn nodded, a small smile on his face. “I’m glad to hear the Captain lives,” he assured. “I would endure many months more of torment on the _Fury_ , if only I got to serve under him again.”

Ven’fir was understandably baffled.

The governor nodded, not paying much attention.

“Rest easy, Lieutenant.” He said simply, “The barbarian that stalked our fair seas will be swinging from a rope come morning. Charges of piracy are not taken lightly, and _this_ one barely needs introduction.”

He sneered at Ven’fir, and Ven’fir sneered right back, as much as his gag allowed.

“Quite the household name, aren’t you?” the governor taunted. “The crowds that will come to see you swing shall hardly fit in the courtyard.”

Quinn nodded. “I am pleased that he will not escape again,” he murmured. “He deserves far worse than the noose, if you’ll permit me saying so, sir.”

The governor smiled, beatific.

“Alas, we must abide by the law, else I would gladly see him shackled before a baying crowd.” The governor agreed, seemingly picturing such a sight.

Ven’fir wanted to gut him.

Quinn glanced over, and his eyes were cold.

“You’ll hang, pirate.” He said simply, venom in his clipped tone. “And may the Lord have mercy on your damned soul.”

Ven’fir, trying desperately to make sense of it all, just looked up at him with searching eyes.

Quinn turned away, and something _wrenched_ inside of him.

He struggled, ignoring the agony of moving his wound.

The governor raised an eyebrow at one of his guards.

“Feisty, isn’t he?” he noted, interested. “Well Lieutenant, you may go.”

He waved a dismissive hand in Quinn’s direction, who have a stiff bow and made to leave. No one’s eyes save Ven’fir’s watched him.

“Look at me, you _filth_.” The governor sneered, regarding Ven’fir like he was something off the bottom of his boot. Ven’fir’s eyes snapped back to him, and the intensity seemed to unnerve the governor. The sound of the door opening and closing went unnoticed.

The man stepped back, and one of the guards followed him. “To think, the most wanted man on the seas just sailed himself into his noose,” he said with an amused grin, “Such an ignoble end for such a figure as yourself, _Wrath._ ”

Ven’fir was about to attempt something stupid, when a quiet ‘hurk’ sound brought the rooms attention elsewhere. One guard fell.

Before anyone could pinpoint where it came from, the governor jerked like he had been shot, and an arm wrapped its way around his neck. The man gasped before his air was cut off, and a blade was pressed to his throat.

“I think that’s quite enough,” Came the one voice Ven’fir wanted to hear right now. Quinn was cold eyed, and his expression was flinty.

“What the blazes are you doing?!” The governor wheezed, and Quinn’s mouth lifted into a grim little smirk.

“Shut up,” he ordered, “Or your tongue will be the first thing I cut off you.”

The remaining guard has his blade out and his eyes were wide, uncertain.

“Cut him free,” Quinn called to him. “Or I’ll start doing some cutting of my own.”

He punctuated his statement with a press of his blade that had the governor whimpering.

The guard, young and white as a sheet, shakily did as he was told.

Ven’fir was up and snatching the young man’s blade as soon as he was free, feeling the pleasant weight in his hand.

“Much obliged,” he muttered, before bringing the hilt down on his head, sending the young guard crumpling to the floor in a heap.

Elation filling his body, his couldn’t suppress a grin as he approached the governor.

“Nice work, Quinn.” He murmured, and shadowy blue eyes met his own.

“Looks like it’s not your lucky day,” he said to the governor, a wicked smile gracing his lips. “Do give my regards to my family, won’t you?” he cooed, “They’ll be _so_ glad to know I’m thinking of them.”

He bent to pick up the chains that had once bound him and slipped them on the governors’ pudgy wrists and around a table leg.

When he was secure, he stuffed one end of the ridiculous wig into the man’s mouth and straightened. The governor barely struggled, but he trembled like a leaf. Ven’fir was very tempted to kill him, but then who would spread news of his daring escape?

Quinn stood back, a prim shadow.

Ven’fir wanted to kiss him.

“You-“

“There’s not time,” Quinn interrupted him. “We need to free the crew and the ship.”

Ven’fir nodded, realising that they needed to be sensible.

Ven’fir was unable to contain his smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply, before giving the governor a mocking salute and running for the door, Quinn hot on his heels.

The crew were easy to find. One just needed to follow the sound of swearing and shouting, and soon Ven’fir was unlocking the cells with keys lifted from the belt of a dead guard.

Some did a double take when they saw Malavai, bloody blade in hand and grim faced, but Vette just looked him up and down and grinned.

“Finally.” she said simply, before turning to run.

Ven’fir felt his heart swell, even as he stumbled when his wound sent another lance of pain through him.

Malavai propped him up, concerned.

“You stay down,” he murmured. “I’ll treat you when we’re on the ship, but you need to keep yourself down for now.”

Ven’fir wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t going to disobey his ships doctor.

With a tired grin, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Malavai’s cheek, scratchy stubble feeling harsh under his lips.

“Yes, doctor.” He murmured, and Malavai flushed pink at his tone.

“You’re an ass,” he mumbled as the last of the crew ran.

Ven’fir just leaned into him.

It was laughably easy to escape. They had numbers, weapons and fury on their side, and they carved a bloody path through anyone foolish enough to try and stop them.

Then there she was.

The _Fury_ looked as magnificent in the dock as she always did, her sails neatly stowed and her prow bearing the figurehead of a snarling lion.

Beautiful.

The guards were dispatched with brutal ease, and soon the crew were rushing to raise the anchor.

The reinforcements arrived just as they managed to cast off, and Ven’fir couldn’t resist saluting them as they pulled away.

He quickly ducked when they started shooting at him.

Malavai pulled him down to safety, an irritated look on his face.

“If you get your fool-self shot after I just burned my life away rescuing you, I’ll kill you myself,” he snapped. Ven’fir smiled at him, delirious from happiness and probably blood loss.

Quinn softened, and squeezed his hand.

“We’re not safe yet,” he murmured. “And I should help.”

Ven’fir nodded, feeling the strength that came from adrenaline start to ebb. His wound was agony, and his whole body felt weak.

The bell was ringing, and men were shouting, but he managed to hold onto a barrel and keep himself upright.

The ship moved under his feet and the air smelled like salt and tar.

He smiled.

* * *

“Will you stop squirming?”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry,” Malavai muttered, sour.

Ven’fir grinned into the pillow that he was currently face first in, and felt affection ignite in his belly.

Malavai was straddling his lower back, applying ointment to the healing wound over his shoulders. It would leave a nasty scar, but he had gotten off lightly.

Some of his men hadn’t made it.

Malavai was heavy, but Ven’fir certainly wasn’t complaining about having him on top of him, no matter the circumstances.

His hands were rough and warm, and the ointment soothed the wound that was healing nicely. A month of Malavai's care had done wonders.

“There, you’re done.” Malavai pronounced suddenly, giving him a tap on the arm as he got off him. Ven’fir missed the warmth, but he had to admit that having Malavai sit on him like that wasn’t good for his back.

He winced as he rolled over and sat up, running a hand through dark curls to brush them from his eyes.

Malavai was tidying his things away, consumed with his task.

Ven’fir watched him.

His profile was lovely even in the dim light of his cabin, his breeches clinging to his legs and showing off his thighs and _wonderful_ backside.

Oh, to have those legs wrapped around his waist...

“I can feel you thinking at me,” Malavai said, not turning around.

“I’m flattered you believe me capable of thinking anything coherent when you’re in the room.” Ven’fir said winningly, and he heard Malavai chuckle.

He finished tidying, and came over to sit on the side of the bed, expression fond.

“You have no shame,” he murmured.

Ven’fir just smiled at him.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, “For taking care of my wounds. And... and for coming for me.”

Malavai swallowed, averting his eyes.

“Of course,” he replied, quiet. “I wasn’t about to just leave you to hang.”

Ven’fir shrugged with one shoulder. “You could have. You could have gone back to your life.”

Malavai scoffed. “What life? I have no family that will speak to me, my career was going nowhere, and absolutely no one would wish to marry me. What was I leaving behind, really?”

Ven’fir frowned.

“I can’t imagine you having no one wishing to marry you. I mean, have you _seen_ you?”

Malavai blushed, pink settling on his cheekbones.

“I’m... a little old to be prime husband material,” he said awkwardly. “And I believe my personality is the biggest challenge. I’m not good with people, nor do I have enough money to make a woman look beyond those glaring issues.” He said dryly.

Ven’fir tilted his head.

“What about a man?” he prompted, grinning.

Malavai looked embarrassed.

“I’ve... never pursued that line of thought,” he muttered, fidgeting with his hands. “I suspect women subconsciously realised that my interest in them was... half hearted.”

Ven’fir shifted on the bed to sit cross legged.

“Well, you can’t say now that you’ve never kissed a man,” he teased, and Malavai’s blush deepened.

“I... I suppose not. It was a little thrilling, to be honest. I knew I wasn’t supposed to want to, and then there you were, offering me something I knew I would never have the chance to do again.” He admitted.

Ven’fir gave him a lopsided grin. “Well, circumstances have changed somewhat. You can have all the kisses you want.”

Blue eyes met his own.

“You’re really quite persistent, aren’t you?” Malavai asked with a small, awkward smile.

Ven’fir nodded. “When I see something I want? Absolutely.”

“And you want me?”

“More than anything.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Malavai warned him. “If I do agree to be your... lover, I don’t expect to be put on a pedestal and lied to. I don’t wish to be treated better than I deserve, and I will not be a pet.”

Ven’fir, feeling a little giddy, nodded quickly.

“I don’t want a pet.” He assured. “I want you, just as you are. Fussy, prickly, sassy Malavai.”

The other man’s cheeks had darkened to magenta, and he fiddled with loose threads in the blanket.

“I really do like you, and... I wouldn’t mind it if you kissed me again.”

Ven’fir had never moved so quickly.

He leaned in and, without hesitation, kissed him.

Malavai probably hadn’t been expecting such an immediate response, but Ven’fir was not one for waiting, especially not now he was _allowed_.

He was warm, and he responded with surging enthusiasm. Soon, those sweet little kisses heated up, and Ven’fir decided that in all his long career on the sea, nothing topped this for thrill.

Malavai ended up in his lap, straddling him as he leaned back against the headboard of his bed. His body was warm and pleasantly heavy, and Ven’fir didn’t waste the opportunity to rest his hands on his waist, warmth seeping into his fingers.

Eventually, they had to part for air, but Malavai seemed reluctant to leave his space, staying close enough to bump noses.

He was breathing heavily and his mouth was red and a little swollen from their fierce kisses.

“Want to stay?” Ven’fir murmured as his teeth grazed the other man’s jaw. He felt him tense, and he gave him a little squeeze.

“Not to fuck, although I wouldn’t mind at all if you wanted to.” He grinned, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “Just... more of this, and maybe I’ll get your cock in my mouth at same point. Sound good?”

He heard Malavai's breath catch, and he shivered.

“You don’t have to-"

“I _really_ want to.” Ven’fir cut in, amused.

Malavai pulled back, flushed and in the kind of disarray that spoke of inappropriate things.

If he looked this good after some heated kisses, Ven’fir couldn’t wait to see how wonderfully debauched he would look after Ven’fir fucked him into pleasurable oblivion.

“Then I shall return the favour,” the man in his lap said firmly.

Ven’fir's brain missed a beat, and he felt heat pool in his belly. “You're _lovely_ , you are.” He muttered, pleased.

Malavai regarded him from under his lashes. “I’m curious.” He admitted. “And I find myself wanting to explore you.”

Ven’fir settled back into the bed, his hands resting on Malavai's hips. With a grin, he dropped one hand to rest on his backside, giving the generous handful an appreciative squeeze. Malavai gave an odd shiver, shifting in a way that had Ven’fir biting his lip.

“Explore away,” he breathed, looking up in wonder. Malavai gave a little smile, shy and excited.

“But first...” Malavai murmured with a small smile. “Some more of those kisses wouldn’t go amiss.”

* * *

It was months later, when they were in port for supplies and a few days shore leave, that Vette bounded up to them with something in her hands.

Ven’fir and Malavai were talking quietly at a table in the tavern, drinks in their hands and their knees touching under the table.

It was a rowdy sort of establishment, one of the many unlawful settlements dotting the islands that scattered over the sea.

Best of all though, was very little in the way of crown authority.

Still, when Vette burst in and hurried over, Ven’fir thought something was wrong.

Then he saw her beaming grin, and realised that there was no need to panic.

She waved the papers in front of Malavai's nose, far too close to see.

Irritable, he batted them away with a wrinkled nose.

Vette tutted and spread them on the table.

Ven’fir blinked.

“That’s _me.”_ He said dumbly, staring.

He glanced at another one of the papers. “And that’s you!”

With a delighted laugh, he pointed to one.

“Malavai, how does it feel to be a wanted man?”

The older man peered at his poster, assessing it.

“Surprisingly accurate,” he drawled, taking a drink. “And honestly, it was about time.”

Vette grinned, her eyes bright. Her long hair was braided in its customary thick plaits, and was long enough to brush her elbows.

“Look at them all!” She cackled, “Why have they drawn us so pretty?!”

Ven’fir inspected his own poster, deeply amused by exactly how sultry they had managed to make his expression.

He approved.

“For accuracy, obviously.” He smirked. “Malavai, yours looks _perfect._ They really nailed your ‘you are dirt on the bottom of my boot’ expression.”

Malavai frowned. “I do not look at people like that.”

Vette gave an unladylike snort.

“You absolutely do. I swear, you have to be the only ships doctor with a body count high enough to earn you a poster.”

Malavai shrugged.

“I have a diverse array of skills.”

Ven’fir smirked. “That does rather make it sound like they expire on your operating table, though. You’re not _that_ bad.”

Malavai gave him a look.

“Maybe I’ll start mutiny, see how you fare then?”

Ven’fir gave him a grin.

“You'd never mutiny against me; you love me too much.”

“Some days, it varies.” Came the dry response, amused all the same.

Vette rolled her eyes.

“Can you two go five minutes without sassing each other? If you’re not bickering, you’re being all disgustingly flirty.”

Ven’fir noted the pink spreading over Malavai's cheeks, and smirked.

“Hush, Vette dear.”

The young woman rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’m pleased with mine,” she said, gesturing to her poster. It was a canny likeness, and the artist had drawn her expression as impish and sly. It suited her.

“It feels like the artist is more of a fan than anything else,” she mused. “Maybe I’ll do some digging to find out who they are.”

Ven’fir nodded, amused.

“I would like to extend my thanks to them for the boost in popularity. No wonder people have been staring at us.” He laughed.

Vette gave him a flat look.

“They’re probably staring at you because you’re... you.” She muttered, gesturing to his clothes.

Ven’fir blinked. “What's wrong with me?”

Malavai rolled his eyes. “Nothing, Captain. You’re fine.”

Ven’fir leered at him. “Oh, I know. I’m very _fine_ indeed.”

Ven’fir had decided on a bit of a wardrobe upgrade after the incident at the hands of the governor. His coat had been ruined, which was a pity. He wasn’t too upset however, as it was a wonderful excuse to go shopping.

Ven’fir _loved_ shopping.

Vette had rolled her eyes when he had first shown her his new coat, all embroidered with shining thread that stood out against the black. The lining was patterned sea green silk, flashy and expensive. It was a complicated looking thing with all the buckles and brocade, but she admitted that it suited him.

His new hat, sitting beside him on the table, had a fresh peacock feather in it, and the lining matched that of his coat.

Malavai had rolled his eyes fondly at him when he had dragged him over to show him.

Ven’fir had insisted Malavai buy new clothes with his first share of loot, although he needn’t have bothered.

The man was fastidious with his appearance, albeit in a different way to Ven’fir.

Plain and practical, he cut an elegant figure on the ship, contrasting with Ven’fir's flamboyant sense of style.

Still, Ven’fir had to admit that it suited him, and his perfectly polished appearance was a pleasant departure from normal pirate fashion.

He snuck a look at his lover, softening as he watched him bicker with Vette.

Stubble clung to his jaw, and his hair was going grey at the temples. The lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and gloved hands moved as he talked.

He was even prettier _out_ of his clothes.

The man had been shy and quite awkward during the first weeks of their relationship, but he seemed determined to not let his nerves hold him back. It was sweet in a way, how he forced himself to try new things and was pleasantly surprised by most of them.

Ven’fir could still picture him with his head thrown back, throat bitten red and hair a damp mess, his skin shining like it had been polished as he moved in Ven’fir’s lap, letting out breathy orders for more.

He brought himself back into the present, lest he find himself in an uncomfortable position in the tavern. This time, they weren’t in a corner secluded enough to make Malavai think about sneaking a hand under the table for him.

Malavai was enjoying the opportunity to indulge himself, and that meant that Ven’fir had the pleasure of facilitating and joining in.

He was still rigidly organised, neat to the point of being neurotic, and had the bad habit of snapping at people when they disturbed him, but he was enjoying his new life.

Ven’fir was glad for that. After all, Malavai had given up everything he knew for a man who had kidnapped him.

Ven’fir had hardly treated him like a prisoner, of course, but still.

He was brought out of his thoughts by Vette smacking her hand on the table.

“What do you mean, you would cut his hand off?!”

Ven’fir blinked, baffled.

“Whose hand are we cutting off?” He asked, bemused.

Several patrons near them looked away in fear.

They were used to pirates and other somewhat less than reputable clientele, but when a captain as well known as the _Wrath_ came for a drink, people tended to stay on their toes.

Especially when he, his first mate and his ships doctor started talking about cutting off hands.

Vette scowled.

“One of the lads got caught stealing yesterday, and I wondered what his punishment would be.” She grunted. “This ass said he would cut off his _hand_.”

Malavai shrugged. “Depends who he stole from. Is it me? Then he loses that hand.”

Vette stared at him. “But what if he's only trying to feed his starving family?” she posited, and the doctor tilted his head to consider.

“He’s probably lying.” He said simply, “But if he proved that he wasn’t, I would probably only take a finger.”

Vette wrinkled her nose. “Seriously, you’re _weird._ ”

Malavai scoffed, but his eyes were amused. “That is the standard punishment for thievery.” He pointed out. “You’re a very soft-hearted pirate, Vette.”

Vette snorted. “And you’ve taken to being one very well,” she shot back, but a smile tugged at her mouth. “Half the crew stay in line because they’re petrified of you.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

“Are they really?”

Ven’fir chuckled. “They are. You’re considered quite fearsome, you know.”

Malavai shrugged. “Oh, good.” He said simply, approving. “It’ll stop them thinking that just because I’m the doctor, I’m as meek as a lamb.” He grunted. “I'll break the nose of the next person to call me ‘redcoat'.”

Ven’fir sighed, smiling.

“I love you,” he murmured, enamoured.

Malavai blushed. “And I, you.” He muttered back, awkward and fussy.

Vette pretended to gag. “You two are so sappy, it should be illegal.”

Ven’fir grinned at her.

“Of _course_ it's illegal, but that's hardly stopping us.” He pointed out. “Being pirates, and all.”

He raised his flagon, and grinned at his two companions.

“To a good life,” He toasted, “And friends to share it with.”

Vette raised her own drink with a grin so wide it threatened to take over her face.

“To doing all the shit we shouldn’t!” She laughed.

Malavai raised his tankard with a smile. “To freedom.”

Ven’fir nodded, his heart warm with fondness.

“To freedom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... this did get away form me a bit, didn't it?
> 
> As an interesting side note, the artist was definitely Jaesa, who is a huge fan of the whole crew of the Fury.


	40. It wasn't my idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malavai Quinn had never liked his birthday.

Malavai Quinn had never liked his birthday.

  
It was, in his opinion, such a silly thing to celebrate.

  
What was the _point_? 

  
_Congratulations, you survived another revolution of your home planet around its star._

  
He wasn’t sure he even counted.

  
After all, weren’t birthdays for real people? Not that he didn’t count himself as a person per se, but birthdays became a bit of a non-entity when one realised that he had been designed. His mother had used the word ‘extracted’ rather than ‘born', and that quite removed any romanticism from the idea of birthdays.

  
Ven’fir seemed to have forgotten that he had one, which was fine. Malavai made a point never to mention it, so he really couldn’t blame the Sith.

  
He loved Ven’fir, but the man had a remarkable ability to completely miss things.

  
Ven’fir's own birthday was a party of truly monumental proportions, including a lot of glitter, enough food to feed the Imperial army, and a lot of alcohol.

  
The Sith could drink most of them under the table by sheer experience. Even Malavai, with his enhanced capacity to handle toxins, didn’t try to match him. Not that he would, of course. A drink or two was one thing, but blackout sloppy drunk had never been on his list of fun things to be, so he limited himself to a sensible glass of water.

  
He had to stay sober and make sure everything ran smoothly, after all.

  
Parties were not his forte, but he could plan and organize with the best of them.

  
The Nexus room had been so appreciative of his help that they had sent him a holomail expressing their thankfulness.

  
They were probably just pleased that nothing got broken and no one ended up on the end of a lightsaber.

  
Ven’fir had thanked him the morning after, hunched over a lurid orange smoothie, looking like he just wanted to melt into the floor and not exist for a while. The Sith's green complexion was ashen and his eyes were bloodshot and tired, and his hair looked like a small war had broken out in a birds nest.

  
Malavai had taken one look at him and sighed, fixing a perfectly balanced breakfast to accompany the smoothie and leaving two small caplets by his side.

  
The look the younger man had given him was pitiful, and Malavai would have had more sympathy if Ven’fir hadn’t been completely responsible for his own choices, and had spent a significant portion of the night showing off risque dance moves that he had sworn had come from a very brief career as a stripper.

  
Considering the nature of the dancing and how most of it involved a lot of gyrating and shaking of various assets, Malavai was inclined to believe his story of partying way too hard one night in his youth and being offered a job by one of the establishments, which he naturally accepted until he got bored and went back to the academy.

  
Besides, Malavai was a medical professional. He knew exactly how to deal with a hangover, and it was definitely _not_ with mimosas.

  
Still, he wasn’t completely heartless (contrary to popular belief), and allowed the stricken Sith to come and latch onto him after he had gotten out of the shower.

  
Ven’fir was extra clingy when he was tired or sick, and Malavai hadn’t admit that the cuddling was  nice.  
Ven’fir snoozed against him, his head resting on Malavai's shoulder, curled into his side as Malavai gently played with his hair, his other hand holding his holopad as he read his book.

  
It was nice.

  
For the longest time, relaxing had always been something he actively avoided. After all, one shouldn’t relax when there was work to be done, and there was always work to be done. Even moments like reading before bed came with a little stab of guilt.

  
Now though, he found it a little easier to take time to himself.

  
Malavai had always liked Ven’fir's apartment.  
It was high up and overlooked the city to the north, and the seemingly endless jungle to the west. Rain lashed against the huge windows, tinted to keep nosy neighbours from looking in, while leaving their view unimpeded. It made one feel detached, like the outside world was miles away.

  
Ven’fir, never one to scrimp on style or comfort, had everything one could possibly want, and more.  
Malavai just liked the big windows and the comfortable sofa.

  
There was a reading nook too, small and comfortable, and Ven’fir always seemed to be able to know when he was there.

  
Ven’fir hadn’t expressly asked him to move in with him, which was understandable considering how long they were usually away, but Malavai found himself thinking of the place like a home anyway. He had clothes there. And a toothbrush. Maybe he knew exactly what all the kitchen cupboards had in them, and where the glasses were kept.

  
Although, the homely feeling might also have been because it had Ven’fir in it.

  
A beep told him someone was at the door, and he heard the droid perk up and go to let them in.

  
He wasn’t overly worried.

  
The number of people allowed in Ven’fir's apartment without his express permission could be counted on one hand.

  
“Well, aren’t _you_ comfortable?”

  
Malavai couldn’t see Vette from where he was sitting, so he kept reading, one hand on his book, the other carding through Ven’fir's messy curls.

  
“Hello, Vette.” He greeted placidly, “Are you feeling better?”

  
The young Twi’lek grunted at him as she flopped onto the other sofa, slouching.

  
Malavai raised an eyebrow. How uncouth.

  
“There’s jombu smoothie in the kitchen if you want some,” he said simply, “It’ll make you feel better.”

  
Vette looked about as bad as Ven’fir. Probably worse now, since the Sith had forced down some breakfast and had a shower.

  
She wrinkled her nose. “That orange sludge?” she asked, unimpressed. “It looks like barf.”

  
Malavai rolled his eyes, setting down his holopad. “It’s good for you,” he stressed. “It has all the nutrients you need and the pirun'ta honey will soothe your headache. And if your vomit is ever  orange, you should consult a medical professional.”

  
He gave her a beady look. “Ven’fir drank some, and he felt better.”

  
Vette snorted, eyeing the sleeping tangle of limbs that was their fearless Sith. He didn’t look very intimidating, not now.

  
“I can tell.” She drawled. “He's well away, isn’t he?”

  
“Completely out of it,” Malavai agreed, fond.

  
Ven’fir was curled up as close as he could get, his nose pressed against the crook of Malavai’s neck, his arms loosely around his lover’s torso. His legs were tucked under him, and he breathed deeply.

  
He was dressed way down in soft, comfortable clothing. Fuzzy bedsocks adorned his feet, and his slippers were dropped haphazardly on the floor.

  
Vette softened. “Aww. What a cute little tyrant.”

  
Malavai raised an eyebrow. “Little?”

  
He would not call Ven’fir, who was five ten of muscle and personality, little by any stretch of the imagination. 

  
Vette wrinkled her nose. “Eww, no. Stars, I don’t want to know.”

  
For a moment, he was baffled. Then, realising what she meant, he felt his cheeks heat up and cursed his fair skin that turned red at the slightest bit of embarrassment.

  
“That is _not_ what I meant.” He defended, and Vette eyed him suspiciously.

  
“Sure.” She muttered, peering at the Sith. “Say, do you have a pen?”

  
Malavai frowned at the seeming non sequitur.  
“I don’t think so.” He answered, “Who uses pens and flimsi any more?”

  
Vette sighed.

  
“That’s a pity. I wanted to draw on his face.”

  
Malavai blinked. “Why?”

  
She gave him an odd look.

  
“Because it’s funny?” she said in a way that implied she though he was being stupid. “Have you never been to a house party?”

  
Malavai shook his head, and Vette stared.

  
“Seriously? You’re like a million years old, I can’t believe you’ve never once been to a house party.”

  
He gave her a flat look.

  
“That would require having people willing to invite me.” He said dryly.

  
Vette winced minutely. “Right. Well, I thought maybe you’d been to one as a chaperone or decided to go to stand there and disapprove of people or something.”

  
“Is that what you think I do in my spare time? Stand around and stare judgementally at people?”

  
She shrugged, scratching her lekku.

  
“Kinda, yeah.”

  
Malavai was honestly rather offended at the thought that he would spend what little spare time he had on such an unproductive activity.

  
“Well, I do not.” He sniffed. “I go to the gym, or read.”

  
Vette stared.

  
“Is... is that _it_?” She asked, horrified. Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open.

  
He flushed, and unconsciously held onto Ven’fir a little tighter. The Sith didn’t notice.

  
“Mostly,” he said defensively, “I spend time with Ven’fir too.”

  
Vette waved a hand. “I do _not_ need to know how you pen in sex into your daily planner, and I know you have one of those.”

  
Malavai frowned. He did have one on his holopad, and Ven’fir regularly filled in his ‘To Do' list with several entries of his own name. It never seemed to get less funny for the Sith. He did not, however, schedule sex. He wasn’t _that_ neurotic.

  
“It's good to stay on top of what I have to get done for the day-"

  
She cut him off. How rude.

  
“Yeah, no. You are, and I say this with absolute sincerity, a _massive_ nerd.”

  
Malavai wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  
“Well, to each their own.” He muttered, feeling Ven’fir shift slightly in his arms.

  
The Sith was warm and heavy, and Malavai never wanted him to get up.

  
“Well, I think you need to do more fun stuff.” She announced. “It’ll be good for you.”

  
Immediately, Malavai felt a pinch of concern, anxiety fluttering in his belly.

  
She had better not try and surprise him with anything.

  
Malavai hated surprises.

  
“Whatever you’re thinking, please do not.” He muttered. “I am fine.”

  
Vette waved a dismissive hand.

  
“When is your birthday anyway? That’s always a good excuse for a party.

  
Malavai frowned. “I don’t celebrate my birthday.” He said flatly. “And I don’t want to.”

  
Vette had quite the range of gobsmacked expressions, he was discovering.

  
“What is wrong with you? Birthdays are awesome.”

  
A spike of annoyance had his tone frostier than he would have liked.

  
“I don’t see the appeal about celebrating completing one more revolution around my home systems star.” He bit out.

  
Vette considered him for a moment, something sad in her eyes. He didn’t like it.

  
“Well, _I’m_ happy you were born, even if you don’t seem to be.” She said eventually, meeting his eyes.

  
Malavai swallowed. That... wasn’t a sentiment anyone but Ven’fir had ever expressed.

  
Vette noted his taken aback expression and sighed.  
“You’re messed up.” She announced, getting up and promptly leaning over the sleeping Sith to hug him.

  
Malavai felt himself go still, awkwardly frozen as she hugged him. It wasn’t bad, but it was still unexpected physicality and that was a no go. Also, it was _Vette_.

  
“V'tte? Not that I mind, but you’re s’ffocating me with your chest.”

  
Vette jumped and backpeddled, flushing as a bleary Ven’fir blinked up at them.

  
Malavai looked down at him, bemused.

  
Vette had gone a deep shade of purple as she blushed.

  
“You’re such a pervert.” She grunted, scowling.

  
Ven’fir levered himself up, yawning.

  
“You’re the one who tried to suffocate me.” He pointed out. “I was asleep.”

  
“I didn’t think these would be enough to suffocate anybody.” Vette grunted, crossing her arms.

  
Ven’fir shrugged, stretching. Malavai couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the lines of his body and the strip of skin that showed when his shirt pulled up.

  
Hmm, lovely.

  
Vette scoffed.

  
“Right. Quinn is giving you the eyes, so this is my cue to leave.

  
Malavai flushed at being caught, quickly averting his gaze.

  
Ven’fir smirked and draped himself over the human like a playful big cat.

  
“Hmm, I don’t think I’ve thoroughly thanked the Captain for his help with last night’s party,” he murmured, amber eyes bright under dark lashes.

  
Malavai still couldn’t quite believe that Ven’fir had decided he wanted to be with him.

  
Vette stood up abruptly, rolling her eyes. “Great, now I feel dirty just being in the same room as you.” She snarked, flicking her lekku over her shoulder.

  
“Get some proper breakfast!” Malavai called as she left, half distracted by how Ven’fir was now laying little kisses on his neck.

  
“Yes _dad_.” She called as she left, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  
Malavai sighed, and Ven’fir laughed lowly.

  
“I wonder if she knows I’ve called you ‘daddy’?” He asked with a grin, nibbling at Malavai's collarbone.

  
That felt nice.

  
“I hope not.” He muttered, moving to be more comfortable on the sofa. His hands moved to drag his nails over the Sith's back under his shirt, and Ven’fir gave a full body shiver.

The Sith, apparently uncomfortable in his current twisted position, swung a leg over where Malavai was sitting, and straddled him. He grinned like the nexu that got the cream, shifting his hips and resting his arms on Malavai’s shoulders. 

  
Hands automatically moving to rest at Ven’fir’s waist, Malavai couldn’t help but gaze at him.

  
The green skin was probably supposed to matter more than it did. Ven’fir had a dark complexion, unlike some of his species who looked almost human, or had a pale leaf green appearance. No, his skin was a rich forest green, and it made his smile and his eyes stand out. He was giving Malavai a sultry kind of grin, pleased with himself.

  
Dark curls were a mess, but it only served to make him look boyish, the mop brushing his broad shoulders.

  
The tattoos on his face might have come across garish to some, but they followed the clean lines of his cheekbones, making his already sharp features look ready to cut glass. On anyone else, such hawkish looks would have seemed out of place.  
His cybernetic arm, socketed into the port at his shoulder, had taken some getting used to. It had probably bothered him more than it had Ven’fir.

  
Now, it was like it had always been there. It would feel strange, he decided, to feel two warm hands again. Some cybernetics were built for inhuman power, but Ven’fir had decided that he wanted something that looked and felt as real as he could get, and had traded hidden weapons and robotic strength in for moulded nanocarbon and sleek lines. It suited him, standing out stark and black against his skin.

  
Malavai moved one hand without thinking, pulling the younger man down for a kiss.

  
Ven’fir went easily, smiling into it before melting into the affection, happy to let Malavai have his way for now.

  
He seemed to be particularly compliant today, and Malavai got the feeling he rather wanted to be taken care of. He was playful and teasing, kissing back like he knew exactly how desirable he was.

  
And Malavai did desire him.

  
He had never felt such strong feelings for someone before. Oh, he’d had one or two girlfriends or boyfriends that hadn’t lasted long, a few one-night stands when he felt the urge, but no one had ever ignited quite the fire in him that Ven’fir had.

  
He had thought that maybe he was broken. Maybe he didn’t feel things like everyone else. 

  
That was probably true.

  
It didn’t matter, though.

  
He kissed the Sith, marvelling at what he was allowed.

  
Ven’fir sat in his lap, heavy and warm, a hint of stubble on his jaw and his kisses slow and filthy.  He was a solid weight, never having been a small man.

Malavai liked the broadness of his shoulders, the swell of his arms and thighs, the angles of his hips. He liked running his fingernails over his back, causing him to make a cut off sound and go boneless and floppy.

  
Hands disappeared under clothing and everything felt hot and hazy. They each revelled in the other, Malavai throwing himself into the feelings. It was unhurried and unceremonious, and that was as heady as anything else. Right now, they were not Sith and Imperial, Captain and Darth, human and alien.

They were just lovers, enjoying each other.

  
He wanted to leave Ven’fir gasping, to have him moaning out breathless encouragement and feel him pull Malavai closer. He wanted to hear him curse and see him smile, his green skin flushed and eyes hazy with affection and desire.

  
Ven’fir seemed to share similar sentiments.

  
They parted for air, but as Malavai moved in to kiss him again, Ven’fir pulled away with a grin.

  
“I’ve been wanting to do something for a while,” he murmured, mouth kiss bitten and cheeks flushed.

They were both still clothed, although considering the state of them, anyone could guess what they had been up to.

  
With a little shimmy that had Malavai's brain lagging for a second, Ven’fir moved off his lap and sank to his knees with a smirk.

  
No matter how many times he witnessed it, Malavai would always be breathless at the sight of him. To see which a powerful man, one so infamous and brash, get on his knees with a smile was intoxicating.

  
The Sith shuffled forward and parted Malavai's knees, coming to stop with his arms resting on his thighs.

  
“You know, I don’t think we need the bedroom just yet.” Ven’fir murmured, his fingers digging into Malavai's thighs.

  
“I don’t doubt we’ll end up there eventually.” The officer murmured, feeling a little giddy. Intimacy with Ven’fir always felt like such a thrill.

  
The Sith grinned.

  
“As if I could keep my hands off you.” He winked roguishly, and Malavai couldn’t help but laugh.

* * *

Later, when they were catching their breath, Malavai marvelled at how he had gotten here.

  
How had it worked out that he, Malavai Quinn, failure and awkward mess, had ended up here? It felt like he had stolen a part made for someone else.

  
 Ven’fir splayed out on top of him as aftershocks made him twitch, coming down from his frantic high. His breathing was fast and shallow, and he kept himself close.

  
Malavai was just as messy, his brain blinking back online and his body feeling pleasantly tired and tingly.

  
“L've you.” Ven’fir mumbled into the crook of his neck, shivering as the aftershocks left him.

  
Malavai, who somehow managed to always recover faster than the Sith, brought up a lazy hand to idly run his nails over Ven’fir’s spine, murmuring the sentiment back to him.

  
The Sith twitched and make a cut off noise, the feeling too much like overstimulation.

  
Malavai smiled, and did it again.

  
The twitch was more pronounced this time, and Ven’fir made a disgruntled noise before moving himself sideways to flop on the bed, blowing air out from pursed lips.

  
“Bright stars, that was good.”

  
Malavai shifted so he could lay on his side, propped up by an elbow.

  
Ven’fir opened his eyes and looked over at him, grinning widely.

  
“I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to walk until later,” he admitted. “I feel like I’m made of jelly."

  
Malavai felt a lance of worry. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, embarrassed.

  
Ven’fir looked surprised, but soon shook his head. He leaned over and pressed a clumsy kiss to Malavai's cheek.

  
“No.” He murmured fondly. “It takes more than a good, hard screw to hurt me,” he teased. “You know I’m not usually one for the rough stuff unless I’m dishing it out, but I liked that.” He admitted.

  
Malavai nodded. 

  
After so long, he liked to think he knew their preferences well enough.

  
Malavai liked different things depending on his mood. He enjoyed being manhandled, held down and worked over so much that he couldn’t even think.  
It wasn’t about power, or at least he didn’t feel like it was. He just wanted someone else to take the reins for a while, to make the decisions and _think_.

  
That, coupled with the warm flush he got whenever someone complimented him in that breathless way people do during intimacy, talking about how good he looked and how wonderful he was. Outside of the bedroom such things were uncomfortable, but something about the raw honesty of passion set his blood alight.

  
It was a little embarrassing really, how quickly he went to pieces when Ven’fir pressed up against him and kissed him like he couldn’t get enough. Like he was being rough because he just couldn’t contain how much he wanted Malavai.

  
That wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy many other types of intimacy, because he did. Just now, for example, he had enjoyed showing Ven’fir just how much the Sith meant to him, and what his teasing did to him.  
Ven’fir, usually preferring to be in control, had melted into his arms and let Malavai work him over until he was shaking.

  
It was an intense feeling, having Ven’fir underneath him, gasping out his name and clinging into him for dear life, his eyes fluttering closed and his legs around Malavai's waist to keep him close.

  
The Sith didn’t have any hang ups about letting him know he was enjoying something, and having such a responsive, expressive partner was thrilling.

  
Ven’fir curled further into the covers. “As much as I joked earlier, I really do appreciate how much you helped last night.” He murmured.

  
Malavai felt a little tickle of pride in his belly. “I’m happy to help,” he said honestly, “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

  
Ven’fir tilted his head, apparently thinking about something.

  
“Your birthday is coming up next month, isn’t it?” he asked, and Malavai blinked. He hadn’t expected the Sith to remember.

  
“Yes,” He said cautiously. “But I don’t celebrate it.”

  
Ven’fir frowned. “Not even the big ones?”

  
Malavai grimaced. “I had almost forgotten,” he muttered.

  
Ven’fir scoffed, smiling.

  
“Forty isn’t old.” He said firmly. “Besides, you don’t look old. You’re gorgeous.”

  
There went that blush again.

  
“I don’t pay much attention to my birthdays,” he murmured, “And I’ve never had anyone who would remember anyway.”

  
He shrugged as best he could, propped up in bed as he was.

  
“And I don’t much like parties. So no, nothing really appeals to me about the ‘birthday experience’.”

  
The Sith just hummed, and stayed quiet.

* * *

  
It had seemed like a completely normal Centaxday.

Malavai hadn’t really given its significance much thought, having assumed Ven’fir had forgotten about their conversation about birthdays. _He_ had forgotten their conversation about birthdays.

  
So, he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. He had gotten up as soon as his alarm rang at 0530, kissed Ven’fir good morning and hopped into the refresher to perform his morning rituals.

  
The Sith was gone when he emerged, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise. Usually Ven’fir was still asleep, and Malavai would gently wake him before going to fix their breakfast.

  
Sometimes though, the Sith woke early and ambled off to the crew ‘fresher to give Malavai some space.  
Assuming he had done so again, Malavai stepped into the galley.

  
Ven’fir met him with a smile and a kiss, which was a nice surprise. The Sith sat him down with a grin, ignoring his baffled look. The Mirialan poured him a cup of caf, and set down a plate in front of him.

  
Fresh breakfast. Had Ven’fir made this himself?

  
“Happy birthday.” The Sith said as he leaned down to press a kiss to Malavai's cheek.

  
Oh. He had remembered.

  
The Sith seemed to find his lost look quite amusing, and he grinned. “I got Toovee to remind me.” He said proudly, and Malavai melted a little.

  
“This looks lovely.” He said honestly. Ven’fir wasn’t awful at cooking, but whatever it was had to be simple. Breakfast foods fit the bill. “Thank you.”

  
The Sith beamed.

  
The day proceeded as normal. Malavai had been a little worried that Ven’fir had planned something big, but as the day wore on it didn’t seem like he had. He brought him several cups of caf though, and gave him a kiss with every one.

  
He didn’t seem to care what job Malavai was doing at the time either, randomly arriving with a mug and a smile. During one of those moments, he and Pierce had been taking inventory of the weaponry, and Ven’fir had bounded in, handing him a mug of fresh caf, and planted one on him.

  
Pierce had looked revolted, but Malavai didn’t much care.

  
After he clocked off, Ven’fir surprised him again with dinner. Apparently Jaesa had written the instructions, but Ven’fir had followed them to the letter and everything had worked well.

  
Malavai felt quite overwhelmed. No one had ever done something to nice for him before.

  
He asked Vette if she had had a hand in this, since Ven’fir wasn’t the type to plan or keep secrets, but she had just shaken her head.

  
“It wasn’t my idea.” she said, shrugging.

  
Well then.

  
They ate and Ven’fir insisted they leave the dishes for Toovee, before he all but dragged Malavai to his quarters.

  
Malavai just let himself be swept along.

  
The surprise ended up being a holo-movie, wine and a box of chocolate to share.

  
Malavai was just about ready to _lose it_ with all the feelings that were fighting for dominance inside him.

  
When the credits rolled, the two of them were a little tipsy, leaning shoulder to shoulder on the big bed.

  
Malavai turned to face Ven’fir, and kissed him. The poor Sith hadn’t really expected it, but hardly seemed ready to complain.

  
Parting, they stayed close.

  
“Thank you.” Malavai murmured, affection making him giddy.

  
“Happy birthday.” Ven’fir said lowly, his expression pleased and fond. “No parties, just like you said.”

  
Malavai felt affection wrap itself around each of his ribs, thick and warm. “It was perfect.” He assured honestly. “Definitely the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

  
Ven’fir gave him a look. “That’s not saying much,” he reminded, “But I’m glad you’re happy.”

  
Malavai kissed him again, soft and sweet.

  
“I am. More than I can put into words,” he murmured against his lovers mouth, before pressing closer.

  
It wasn’t necessarily about the things that Ven’fir had done for him (although they were lovely), it was the thought and care that had been put into the surprise.

  
Ven’fir knew Malavai didn’t want a big celebration, and he wouldn’t feel comfortable with opulent gifts and extravagant activities. He hadn’t argued against Malavai working his usual shift, or tried to make the crew join in some elaborate party idea. It had been quiet and comfortable and _nice_. He had done something just for Malavai, and that meant _everything_.

  
They were too full and tipsy to be in the mood for anything more energetic, but soft kisses and cuddles and another holo-movie was, in Malavai’s opinion, the best way to end a good day.

  
Ven’fir had made the event pleasant and special without going overboard, and it had turned into one of Malavai's most pleasing memories. It had been just right, and he felt like the luckiest man in the galaxy.

  
Birthdays weren’t so bad, he supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwwwww, fluff with these two is just the cutest!


	41. Everyone was staring at me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wrath always did like being the centre of attention.

“Oh my _stars_ , that’s Darth Marr!”

“Really? Where?!”

“There! He’s so _awesome.”_

Venator grinned, unrepentantly amused as he glanced sideways at Marr, who was valiantly pretending he didn’t notice.

“You should be flattered, you know.” The other Sith remarked as they walked though the square, heading out of a fantastically dull meeting about diplomatic tensions with some Outer Rim mudball neither of them cared about.

Marr usually had a good nose for useless meetings, but this one had been rushed into his calendar as _urgent._

He was going to fire his PA.

“And you should be _silent_.” He grunted, not in the mood to deal with the Wrath and his particular brand of humour. Sith were not often overburdened with a sense of humour and Darth Marr was fully willing to accept that he was probably one of them. Then again, if ‘humour' was what the Wrath spouted, he was glad to have missed out.

The Wrath was one of the few Marr would trust with his Empire, which was a shorter list than those he would trust with his life.

He would never, _ever_ tell that to the man himself.

He would never hear the end of it.

The Wrath's amber eyes glittered with some unknown devilry, and a wide grin showed sharp teeth.

“Marr, I’ve not been quiet since the day I was born. Only one man can get me to shut up, and I don’t think you want to ask his advice.”

Marr sighed.

It was, he mused as he pretended he had gone temporarily deaf, politically advantageous to have befriended the Wrath, if only it didn’t come with so much _talking_.

The grin widened, if that was possible. “Or maybe you do? If so, I think I could convince-"

“Wrath.” He ground out in warning, and the man had the gall to _wink_ at him.

“Oh, lighten up.” He tutted. “They’re just fans. You should embrace it.”

“No.”

The younger man raised an eyebrow. “I don’t  see why-"

“Is that _Lord Wrath?!”_

“It is! Has he changed his armour?”

“Has he changed his _hair?”_

Marr, grateful in a way words couldn’t describe for his mask, closed his eyes and counted to ten.

The Wrath had glanced around and, with a roguish wink and a wicked grin, waved at the gaggle of teenagers who were gawking at them from a safe distance.

What they _thought_ was a safe distance.

If he angled it just right, he could get the front three with a saber throw and-

Smile plastered on his face, the Wrath leaned over as he waved. Someone snapped a holo-image. Marr ground his teeth. “Don’t even think about it.” Venator warned cheerily, displaying an impressive skill for ventriloquism. “Think about your public image.”

The Wrath was well within stabbing distance, and it was a testament to the mans nerve (or thick-headedness) that he was being irritating so close.

“I will leave you do your adoring crowd.” He ground out. “I, for one, have actual _work_ to do.”

Wrath snorted. “So do I. I’m not doing it, though. Fuel requisitions are _not_ in my purview, so expect that report to end up on _your_ desk later.” He shrugged. Marr wasn’t sure they were _his_ responsibility either, but the Wrath was still talking.

“I’ve got a meeting with Ravage... oh, ten minutes ago?” he hummed, “And I hate that guy. So, I’m going to be pretty late.”

He smiled, pleased with himself. “Maybe I wont go at all. That’ll annoy him.”

Marr, with an air of long suffering patience that would have made a Jedi proud, sighed.

“Must you antagonize him?” he asked, trying valiantly not to sound helpless. Why couldn’t the Emperor have chosen someone slightly more _mature_ as the Wrath? Maybe someone quieter?

Venator sent a saucy wink at someone who was staring at him with an intensity that made Marr uncomfortable. The young man in question promptly fainted, and was caught by his friend who had been waving so fast her hand was a blur.

“I despise him. So yes, I must antagonize him.” The Wrath said cheerily. “If he calls me a ‘filthy alien parasite' again I’m going to rip those cybernetics out of his face and feed them to him.”

Silently intrigued by the logistics of such a threat, Marr tilted his head. “If you plan to do so, do it quietly.” He grumbled as they finally began walking again. A medical droid was fussing over the comatose teenager.

Venator snorted. “I told you, I’m never quiet.”

“I _noticed_.” Marr couldn’t help but mutter under his breath. By how the Wrath’s smile widened, he had heard him anyway.

They walked in blessed silence for about a minute before the Wrath opened his mouth again. Marr was close to switching off the audio input to his helmet.

“Did you know,” he began conversationally, and it was these sentences that worried Marr the most as he usually did _not_ know, and would have been happy to continue living in blissful ignorance of whatever fact the Wrath felt the need to impart on him. “You have an official fan club? They call themselves ‘the Marrmy’.”

Marr felt his brain miss a beat.

“Like Marr-army? _Marr_ my.” Venator glanced his way, and had the gall to look baffled at his silence. “Do you get it? It’s like Ma-"

“I get it.” He ground out, cutting off the other Sith with a noise that made his throat hurt. His teeth ached from where they were grinding together.

Venator blinked. “Oh, good.” He smiled. “They have a fan page and everything! I made an account.” He gave a wicked grin, designed to annoy. One of these days Marr was going to snap and go insane like the rest of them, and it would be so _degrading_ if everyone knew it was because he was _irritated into insanity._

“Of _course_ you did.” He growled, desperately hoping that there was a free taxi waiting for them. There wasn’t.

The Wrath nodded, pleased with himself. He smirked, amber eyes bright.

“I might have spurred them on a bit,” he admitted, sounding not the least bit sorry. “They were sharing fanart in that last thread I looked at. If I was an artist l would have posted something. Maybe I’ll commission Jaesa.”

He laughed, brushing wind-tossed curls from his eyes. Marr wanted to throw him off the taxi-pad.

“I have one too! Mine call themselves ‘The Path of Wrath'.” He preened, presumably because his group had the better name. “They and all the other fan groups have got a meetup next week, and I’m thinking of crashing it.” He grinned. “They have voted me as the winner of  ‘Best Hair' on the Dark Council.” He shrugged. “They don’t seem to care that I’m not actually _on_ it.”

He gave Marr a sly look that, if Marr was being honest, set his nerves on edge quicker than a Republic battleship dropping out of hyperspace. “You narrowly beat Nox for ‘Most Badass’.”

Considering Nox had a disposition like a particularly tetchy viper, Marr was surprised the man even _had_ a following. He kept himself swathed in black robes complete with high neck, hood and gloves, and his blindfold covered a good portion of his face, which only revealed the deathly pallor of his skin, some nasty scars and a perpetual grimace. Not that Marr could talk, considering he wore a full face _mask_. The waspish Darth was not a figure many would sigh over.

The Wrath had not stopped talking.

“-but ‘Best Resting Bitch Face’ actually went to Acina, while Ravage only took ‘Best Shoulderpads', which made my _day._ ” He chatted while Marr mentally thanked the Force as a taxi started making it’s way towards them. “I think Nox actually took ‘Sexiest Voice' in the end, which I suppose I can agree with. I would climb that man's voice like a tree.”

Marr, silently contemplating using the Force to drag the taxi over quicker, tilted his head.

“Aren’t you engaged?” he asked, tone flat. The Wrath beamed.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “Malavai knows there’s nothing going on between me and Nox. Besides, he kind of creeps me out.” He admitted. “And scares me a bit.”

Most Sith wouldn’t ever admit to something like that, but the Wrath was anything but ‘most Sith'.

Marr privately agreed. Nox was far to clever for anyone's good, and Marr was unendingly grateful the man was loyal.

Or, as loyal as a Dark Councillor got, anyway.

The Wrath flapped a hand in his direction.

“ _Anyway_ , have you seen the posts they make? The little holo-gif sets? They’re _fantastic._ ” He sighed, smiling. “They’re all secret, of course. Vette found them and introduced me. Now I’m on their forums more than she is.”

As the Wrath continued to talk his ear off, Marr dimly hoped that he never found out about exactly what was being said about _him._

* * *

_(A blog on one of the more popular Imperial platforms, entitled_ The Path of Wrath _. The banner is a close up shot of a pair of eyes, blazing amber and surrounded by green skin. A scar runs through, disappearing out of frame. The title of the blog is animated in glowing purple font.)_

LordAwesomesauce _: (An older image of the Wrath, dressed in smart clothes. He is at his graduation ceremony, smiling brightly in contrast with the austere atmosphere of the Korriban graduation hall. Some of his classmates stand away from him, as though they might catch something unpleasant. Others watch him like they want to eat him.)_

CountFuckula: he looks so young oh my stars

Garvaran: how did you even find this? It must have taken ages to go through the archive

LordAwesomesauce: It’s worth it because the galaxy needs to see this. HE HAS BOTH ARMS HERE

Frillan_225: I wouldn’t want to stand next to one of those either

Garvaran: _Replying to @LordAwesomesauce_ He wasn’t born with a metal arm, there was obviously a time before he lost it

LordAwesomesauce: _Replying to @Garvaran_ DUH

\----------

Fizzpot_baby: _(A set of candid images in which the Wrath is going about his business. The first is him at a market, speaking to the proprietor of a stall. His armour is dark and close fitting, twin lightsabers at his belt. He appears to be an apprentice, judging by his age.)_

_The second image is similar, with him looking up as he peruses the shelves in the Sanctum library. His brows knit as he concentrates._

_The third image seems to be captured in a cantina bar, where the young Sith leans into the space of a smitten older woman in robes. His smile promises her a good time._

_Each image is heavily overlaid with filters.)_

LordAwesomesauce: OH MY FUCK WHY IS HE SO PERF

RandoMando: The Wrath has got game

StarCrossedFucker: _Replying to @RandoMando_ She's like twice his age

LadsLadsLads: How is he so pretty wtf

RandoMando: _Replying to @Starcrossedfucker_

your point?

\----------

Washiwash: SHIVERS

_(A more recent gif of the Wrath in full armour, standing tall with a single violet saber lit and held down and away from his body. His other arm is extended, clawed gauntlets forming a familiar motion as he uses the Force to lift some unfortunate by their neck out of shot. His expression is fierce, amber eyes blazing and a snarl exposing his teeth. He looks windswept and his hair is a mess of dark curls. There is blood smeared over his cheek.)_

Washiwash: HOW IS AN ALIEN SO GOOD AT BEING SITH

LordAwesomesauce: oh stars that’s an amazing shot. Where’s it from?!

Centrum_bullet: he can force choke me anytime

Pyre-of-bones: this is why the Republic will get fucked up

Thaler_772: _Replying to @centrum_bullet_ ( _an image of Lord Fuule from the popular holo-series_ Star Destroyer 99 _, brows knitted and eyes wide. His expression is one of deeply worried bafflement. Lettering at the bottom reads ‘_ #concern’)

LordAwesomesauce: _Replying to @Thaler_772_ no kinkshaming in front of our kinklord

\----------

LordAwesomesauce: MY LIFE IS STRUGGLE. LOOOOOOOOK

_(A gif of what seems to be an interview with the Wrath. The Sith looks relaxed on the sofa, smiling at the host who appears nervous. He isn’t in armour, and his clothing is very fashionable and a little risqué in how tight it is. Something the host says makes him laugh. He is playing the audience like a fiddle.)_

Centrum_bullet: UNF

RandoMando: I remember this interview. They were asking him all sorts of stupid questions. I’m surprised he didn’t gut the interviewer

Ifan-Wolf: Those trousers tho _(a gif of the Wrath looking dead into the camera with half lidded eyes and biting his lip. He winks, smirking. The lighting suggests it is not a candid shot, and was probably ripped from a holo-programme)_

LordAwesomesauce: _Replying to @Ifan-Wolf_ Stay strong brother. Stay strong in the face of temptation.

Centrum_bullet: _Replying to Ifan-Wolf_ That everything though

_(A still image of the Wrath, shirt off and posing for a shot. He looks extremely confident and at ease, his expression sly and playful, his hair artfully dishevelled. His tattoos disappear beneath the waistband of the tight leather trousers he has on, and his cybernetic arm is a matte black against his green skin.)_

TheForceNeedsFiveMoreMinutes: wow this thread is thirsty

Centrum_bullet: _Replying to TheForceNeedsFiveMoreMinutes_ Can you blame us?! The thirst is real

Flickering_starlight: this is the Wrath. How do we have a himbo as the Wrath

\----------

LordAwesomesauce: GUYS. GUYS OMS LOOK

_(The image is still, and obviously taken by a professional. It depicts two people standing facing each other, holding hands and staring into each others eyes. The Wrath is one of them, and the other is a human with neat dark hair that is going silver at the temples, pale skin and blue eyes. The Wrath is a little taller, and they are both wearing formal clothing. The Wrath is in ceremonial armour, and the human wears an immaculate military dress uniform. They are smiling softly at one another, and the background is softly out of focus. They look blissfully happy.)_

LordAwesomesauce: WEDDING PICS GOT RELEASED AND I AM DYING OMS

Helvetican: okay I guess. Not my type

Griffdom: _Replying to @Helvetican_ which one?

Helvetican: _Replying to @Griffdom_ The hubby

Griffdom: _Replying to @Helvetican_ THEYRE BOTH THE HUBBY

ShadowNexu: holy shit the wrath ducking scored

Fiorellope: this is so cute

RandoMando: nice photo. They look really happy

CountFuckula: who is the other guy? I can’t find anything about him on the holonet

Fiorellope: _Replying to @CountFuckula_ he's an officer. I think he’s really private

LordAwesomesauce: _Replying to @Fiorellope_ Awww, that’s super cute. Also, he’s legit pretty so holy KRIFF they make a photogenic couple

Wholly_legitimate_business: I’ll take one of each, please and thank you.

\----------

Ifan-Wolf: ( _An image clearly taken from an official photoshoot, it depicts a full length shot of the Wrath. He is in full armour, and holding both his lightsabers angled down, away from his body in symmetry. The purple and crimson casts his features into relief. He is grinning widely, his expression dangerous and intense as he looks directly into the camera. His eyes glow slightly in the dramatic lighting, and he is standing tall with his legs parted, as though ready to react at any moment.)_

_GUYS. OMS GUYS THIS IS THE COVER OF KAAS MAGAZINE_

LordAwesomesauce _:_ W H A T

Fiorellope _:_ I AM DEAD

Centrum_bullet: I would let that man do so many things to me

RandoMando: That is an amazing bit of photography, the lighting is perfect

Griffdom: OMS REALLY?!?!

MomFriendsInSpace: I just saw the article. Holy fuckballs. Go read. Now.

LordAwesomesauce: _Replying to @MomFriendsInSpace_ I am literally shaking rn

CountFuckula: ( _A gif of Darth Moran from Star Destroyer 99, jumping up and down and clapping her hands like a little girl while beaming at something off screen. Animated, glittery text at the bottom reads: #EXCITE )_

DarthShady: oyc6d6s4yfgivbkvc jvfufg0ftxthcf !!!!

Gundark_bimbo: Damn that’s a hell of a read. He really gives no fucks does he?

LordAwesomesauce: I AM SHAKING RN HE JUST POSTED THIS:

_(An embedded link to one the Wrath's many social media accounts, showing a post made 13 minutes ago._

_It reads:_

_WrathOfTheEmpire : You lucky people, I’m doing an Ask Me Anything! I’ll be answering your questions from 1700 KST today, so don’t be shy! ;)_

_It includes a selfie, taken at a slightly odd angle, showing the Wrath winking and smiling at the camera. The location looks to be his home, and from the tops of his shoulders, it appears he is dressed in casual clothing.)_

LordAwesomesauce: GUYS I THINK IM HYPERVENTILATING OMS

CountFuckula: this is going to be amazing

TheForceNeedsFiveMoreMinutes: _(A gif of Darth Nox, arms crossed. He moves one hand in a rolling ‘hurry it up' gesture. He looks supremely unimpressed.)_

Fiorellope: I need to write a list

LordAwesomesauce: the Wrath is doing an AMA. I think this is the best day of my life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven will answer any questions directed to him in part 2 of this chapter, which will be posted tomorrow. ;)
> 
> Please do submit as many as you like, on ANY topic!


	42. Ask Me Anything!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear.

The stream starts three minutes late, so at 1703 KST, holoscreens around the galaxy are graced with the live image of the Wrath, sitting in his living room, smiling at the camera. He is dressed casually, and has a mug of something steaming on the low table in front of him. He is smiling widely, clearly at ease in front of the camera.

  
“Good evening everyone,” he greets, dark curls artfully messy. “Welcome to my AMA! I’ve got a lot of questions, so I’m going to scroll through and I’ll pick ones that jump out at me.” He explains. “It’s raining outside,  I have a fresh mug of Fyi'am, and I have my favourite socks on. Let’s do this.”

  
He peers at his holopad for a moment, before looking pleased.

  
“This set of questions are from ‘DarthKeto', who I can’t tell really likes their diet or is someone I passed in the Citadel the other day.” He shrugs. “They ask ‘how far down do those tattoos go?’”

  
The Wrath looks delighted at the question. He grins and bites his lip, winking at the camera.

  
“Oh, all the way, darling.” He laughs. “They go quite far down, but there’s not as many of them as you might think. They’re actually quite subtle, which I think might be surprising for some. They go down to my feet.”

  
He stands up, and the holo-camera is pointed at his torso. He steps close and lifts the hem of his top, showing the stark black tattoos that follow the V of his hips. They seem to be mostly on his back, but reappear by curling back around his waist leading down to his abdomen. The sound of him laughing is heard, even though his face is out of shot. He let’s the fabric drop, and then pulls the waistband of his trousers down a little to the viewers can see how the tattoo continues down past the sharp points of his hips, the line curved and crisp.

  
With a grin, he sits back down. 

  
“See?” he said with a wink. “One day I might bare all for a photoshoot, but until then that will have to do. It’s not like there is a lack of shirtless photos of me out there.”

  
He peers at his screen, before letting out a sudden chuckle. “’What's your favorite/least favorite bedroom activity and is there anything you won't do?’”

  
The Wrath laughs at the question, and gets comfortable on his sofa. He looks eager to answer.  
“Oh, this is a great one.” He grins. “As exactly no one will be surprised by, I spend a lot of time in the bedroom. Favourite and least favourite activity? I’m going to split that into ‘sex' and ‘not sex'.” He nods, taking a sip of his drink.

  
“Sex wise, I like most things. It depends on the partner. I switch, so that makes the list even longer.”

  
He grins, like he hasn’t just dropped information most people would consider private or embarrassing, or might send fans into a frenzy.

“I like cowgirl, in both positions. I like being rough too, but only if my partner likes it.” He waves a hand. “You know, a bit of biting, some light choking, a slap on the arse or two, maybe some hard fucking. I really like restraints, but not usually on me. Hmm, but probably my favourite sex thing is actually an enthusiastic partner. Anything can be hot when the person you're with is loving it.” He smiles, pleased.

“Favourite non-sex thing? Cuddling."

He says this firmly, like nothing else entered his mind. “I’m a tactile person, and I really like hugs.”

He gives a little laugh, looking boyish as he smiles. 

  
“Least favourite sex thing?” he has to think for a moment. “Humiliation. I don’t enjoy it, and I feel uncomfortable dishing it out. I’m not a huge fan of giving blowjobs either, but only because I have a really strong gag reflex. I still do it, though. I just usually use my mouth on other places, instead.” He shrugs.

"Least favourite non-sex thing?” he frowns, and looks at the camera with an unimpressed expression.

“When my husband puts his cold feet on me.” He says with a drawl. “Or when he doesn’t let me cuddle him.”

  
He thinks for a moment.

  
“What won’t I do? Well, I’ll try almost anything once.” He grins. “I won’t do extreme pain play. I don’t feel comfortable doing that to someone I like. It’s too close to the battlefield for me, and I don’t want to mix those two headspaces.” He pauses. “And I won’t do some of the more... shall we say, interesting things people come up with regarding various bodily excretions?” He laughs. “Sorry, but that’s really not my thing.”

  
He flicks through his holopad again.

  
“Last one from DarthKeto... ’Not really a question, but… more pics of your hubby!’”

  
The Wrath beams, his whole face lighting up. He seems genuinely overjoyed.

  
“Isn’t he handsome?” he gushed, “He doesn’t think so, but I do and I know other people do too. I’m pleased so many people like him.” He nods, pleased.

“He's a very private person, so I’ll have to check what I’m allowed to post.” He admits, opening his comm and quickly typing out a message before looking back to the camera. “Asked him. He's _working_ right now,” he rolled his eyes at the idea that someone might actually be doing something else when he wanted to talk to them. “But he’s usually a quick responder.”

  
He leans back, a nostalgic smile on his face. “When I first met him, I thought he was so hot, you have no idea.” He laughed. “I’ve seen him in all sorts of states, too. Fresh from combat, just out of the gym, just woken up, tired and sick, so sleepy he's falling over... I think he's lovely in all of them.” He said with a little grin. “Unless he's hidden my booze again in which case, he’s a fucking awful person and I hate him. He’s the straight laced sort.” He wrinkles his nose like he smelled something awful. “His favourite food is Chiss toasted salad. That’s just fucking weird. Whose favourite food in the galaxy is salad? And who _toasts_ a _salad_?!”

  
He seems quite passionate about this subject, until his comm buzzes. He flicks it open, reads the message and looks guilty.

  
“Uh, he says that all the images are fine except one, and that ‘just because you only consume oro nuggets and protein shakes doesn’t mean the rest of us have no sense of taste'. That’s not true.” He mutters as he looks up, chastised. “Uh, it seems he's watching the stream.” He pauses awkwardly, before he suddenly smiles slyly and winks at the camera.

“You should be working, sweetheart. No slacking.”

  
He laughs, and taps something on his holopad.

  
“Okay. I have three images, and they are my favourite ones."

  
He holds up his holopad to the camera, and it takes a second to focus.

  
The image is of a Imperial officer, pale skinned and dark haired, standing amidst the rolling dunes of a desert. He is looking over the vista, and his expression is far away, looking over in awe at the landscape. He doesn’t seem to realise he is being photographed. His hair is windswept and there are freckles over his nose. Goggles hang around his neck.

  
“This was taken on Tattooine.” The Wrath explains. “He had never seen a desert before. He wasn’t a fan of the heat, but he loved the landscape. It’s strangely beautiful out there, in an empty sort of way. I love how he freckles in the sun. It’s adorable.” He says with a laugh, taking back the holopad.

  
The next image is more austere, and the officer is standing tall on the bridge of a ship. The image is taken from slightly behind him. His expression is stony and his eyes are fixed on a point out of the view screen, his hands clasped behind his back. He has the look of a man who has just given an order, and is observing it being followed. Stars streak by outside the window.

  
His posture of perfect and his appearance is immaculate, lit by the glow of a holographic galaxy map and crimson lighting strips. The image in quintessentially Imperial, down to the black and red colours of the ship and the leather gloves covering the officers hands.

  
“I love this one.” The Wrath murmurs. “He looks so... Badass.” He sighs, lovestruck. “He is, if you ask me. No Force, and he still marches off to fight Jedi and swamp creatures and Reps with only a pistol and a medpack.” Something about this seems to amuse him, and he smiles slyly. "Also, this one shows off what a cracking arse he's got."

  
He taps on his holopad again, and holds it up for the camera.

  
The image is of the officer, once again not looking at the camera. He is in casual clothes, and is sitting in a bar. A bottle of beer is in his hand, and label half torn off in fussy little strips. He is looking at something out of shot, his expression warm. He looks a little more casual, and the dim, ambient lighting of the bar makes him look softer. 

  
“That's our first date.” The Wrath murmurs, his voice fond. “I decided that I wanted to marry him one day, in that bar.” He laughed, “We got soaked on our way back to the ship. Neither of us thought to bring an umbrella to Dromund Kaas.”

  
He lowers the holopad. He is smiling brightly. 

  
“I have a few more, and I really want to show them, but I won’t.” He admitted. “There's one of us both asleep in a shuttle after a mission gone wrong which is cute, and a few group ones. The one I wasn’t allowed to show was him on holiday, where I put a big straw hat and a flower necklace on him at the beach.” He grinned, deeply amused. “He looked so annoyed. It was hilarious.”

  
He picks up his mug and takes a drink while scrolling through his holopad.

  
“Ooh, these ones are from someone called ‘DarkShadeless',” he read out, “Hi, I’m going to call you Shady.” He grins, before peering at his holopad again.

  
“’What is your favourite big cat at the big cat sanctuary?’ Aww, I like this question. Thanks Shady.” He leaned forward, and brushed a few strands of dark hair from his brow.

  
“Well, it goes without saying that I love all of them,” he said like it was obvious, looking scornful. “Because _all_ cats are perfect. I really get on with this Ice Cat female, her name is Uril.” He smiled. “She really likes me, and she jumps on me every time I go into her enclosure. She's adorable and she loves to cuddle and play.”

  
He smiled. “I’m going to take this opportunity to shamelessly promote the Dromund Kaas big cat sanctuary.” He said with a laugh. “They’re amazing animals, and I feel lucky that I can play with them in a way many people can’t. I don’t need as much protective gear, after all.”

  
He hums and looks at the next question. It startles a laugh out of him.

  
“Have you ever seen Darth Marr without a mask?” he recites, and chuckles. “Sadly not! I have heard him sneeze inside there though; it sounds like a explosion in a can. I’ve been trying to get him out of his armour since I’ve known him.”

  
He pauses.

  
“Not like that. ...Well, maybe a little like that.”

  
He reads the next question and smirks. “Rival? Darling, no one out there matches me, let alone could rival me.” He brushes his hair from his face, amused. “Probably Darth Ravage, if I had to pick one. Not that he's very worthy.” He scoffs, “But I do hate him the most. If he calls me a filthy alien whore again I’m going to tear out his throat.” He says this with a dangerous, saccharine smile that makes his eyes look like those of a hungry tiger.

  
He chuckles and the effect is broken. He leans back onto the sofa, scrolling with his thumb while he gnaws at his bottom lip.

  
He find something, and grins.

  
“This is from ‘HeadcaseCraziness’.” He glances up and makes eye contact with the camera. “You would do well with the Inquisitors, with a name like that.” He notes, before moving on.

  
“The Dark Council: Fuck, Marry, Kill?”

  
He looks positively thrilled with the question, and sits forward eagerly.

  
“Okay, this is one of my favourite questions so far.” He gushes, amused. “Fuck? Hmm, Darth Acina. She's gorgeous, and she's got this razor sharp sense of humour.” He gives a roguish grin. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me saying so, either. I like her voice, too. I feel like she would eat me alive though.” He laughed. “Hmmm, marry? Darth Nox. I love that guy.” He admits with a teasing expression. “I think we would make a brilliant team, and I always like smart partners. I feel like he would be a good spouse, too. I bet he's secretly a big softie.”

  
He reminds himself of the question, and snorts. “Kill? Ravage, obviously.” He scoffs. “If only to shut him up.”

  
With a beaming grin, the Wrath sets down his holopad.

  
“I’m afraid that's all I have time for. Mal will be back soon, and he is too shy to want to be on camera.   
Thank you all for watching, and I think each and every one of you has wonderful taste.” He winks. “Especially you people on the ‘ _Path of Wrath_ ' pages. Yes, I know about you. Keep that fanart coming!” He cackles with laughter, waving briefly before terminating the stream, leaving stunned fans staring at their screens.

* * *

_On the ‘Path of Wrath' fanpage, all hell is breaking loose. People are caps-locking all over the place, and the amount of gifs are causing the page to lag. It’s carnage._

  
LordAwesomesauce: HE KNOWS ABOUT US HOLY STARS HE KNOWS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who missed out on asking things, Ven can reply in the comments.
> 
> If the fancy takes him. ;)


	43. It was a stupid thing to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU.
> 
> Ven'fir never got sent to the orphanage on Coruscant, and he never became Sith.
> 
> He and Quinn meet anyway.

Ven’fir really wasn’t a fan of caves.

He had yet to meet one that wasn’t dangerous in some way, be it unstable, filled with angry wildlife, or pissed off ghosts.

He kicked a pebble as he used one of his lightsabers to light his path, the soft violet glow illuminating the craggy rock and uneven floor.

The whole place was musty and the air was still and clammy on his skin. The atmosphere felt heavy, and the Force was a tangible in its absence.

There seemed to be exactly nothing interesting about this karking cave, and he was not pleased about having to be in it.

Still, that wasn’t the way. Duty dictated that be go where he was sent and partner up with who he was ordered to partner with.

“Kick a rock at me again, and I’ll strangle you.”

Of course, that was the other thing that was making his day _terrible_.

Ven’fir grunted, keeping his eyes ahead.

“No, you won’t.” He reminded. “We have a mission.”

His companion muttered something rude under his breath.

“And stop swinging your lightsaber near me. You’ll lop my head off with your clumsiness.”

Ven’fir counted to ten.

Calm. He was calm.

“Just because you don’t need a light in complete darkness, doesn’t mean I can’t have one either.” He muttered. “I need to see.”

His partner scoffed. “By flailing your weapon around?”

Ven’fir ground his teeth.

“I am not _flailing_.”

“It’s a weapon, not a glow stick.”

The mirialan tried to think peaceful thoughts.

“It's multi-purpose.” He muttered under his breath. “There's nothing here anyway.”

“Local intel says that someone was seen entering around two hours ago, bypassing the security drones. Apparently, they had a lightsaber.” His partner said pointedly, “Considering we think this cave leads to a collapsed point of an old Sith tomb, I suspect we _do_ need to be here.”

Ven’fir sighed, raising his ‘saber to see better.

“The local said that his son saw two people enter.” He added, “And that one of them was _red_.”

“Well, then.”

Ven'fir grunted at him. “I know. I’m just saying. You could be more supportive, you know. Channel some of that peace we’ve got going.”

He moved his lightsaber to better illuminate an oddly shaped rock, and it caught his companion in its light.

Knight V’lante had never been the easiest person to work with, considering the Miraluka had a personality like a rancor with hangover, and that was on a good day.

His expression was grim and irritated, and his form was tense as they picked their way through stray rocks.

He didn’t need to ignite his lightsaber to see, nor would he ever. The blindfold over where the eyes would be on a human was more for others benefit that his, so people didn’t have to look into skin stretched perfectly over empty sockets. Evolution was a funny thing.

Still, Ven’fir had to admit that he was looking as attractive as ever, all worn leather and rugged, tanned good looks.

Unfair. The man was still _disrespectfully_ fine, considering he was such an unmitigated ass.

Ven’fir was no model Jedi himself, but V’lante seemed to have a ‘fuck it’ kind of attitude that defied belief. If Ven’fir had been dressed down by the Council too many times to count, he wondered how often V’lante got called in to have the Masters guilt trip him.

Still, nice ass.

Bad thoughts, but a nice distraction from the boring, awful cave. Memories of mouths and bodies and muttered curses and rough, hard movements invaded his mind, and he still remembered what V’lante looked like when he shook himself apart as Ven’fir bit at his neck with a hand down his pants, or the little grin on his face when Ven’fir pinned him to the wall of the training room and kissed him like he wanted it to hurt.

They had both still had their braids, then.

Hmm, funny.

“This place is horrible,” he complained quietly, not expecting an answer. “And it smells.”

That was lucky really, because he didn’t receive one.

He sighed, picking his way over fallen boulders and shattered rocks.

Something prickled at his senses.

He paused, throwing out his free hand to stop his companion.

“I sense something,” he murmured. “It's fuzzy. I can’t tell what it is.”

“So much for your talent with Force signatures.” Came the grumpy response.

“Will you shut up?” Ven’fir snarled, temper spiking. “I can’t sense shit with you complaining all the time.”

He concentrated again, and something brushed against the edges of his senses.

“Huh.”

“What?” V’lante bit out, annoyed.

“There’s someone up ahead. Not Force sensitive as far as I can tell but... there’s something else.” Ven’fir muttered. “Some echoes of... pain. Anger. Hurt. Something awful happened here, and recently.”

He felt his shoulders tense. “As in ‘within an hour' recent.”

“Well... kriff.” Came the mutter from V’lante. There was no more needling or mocking, only seriousness. “And there’s someone still alive up there.”

He sighed, and Ven’fir saw him roll his shoulders.

“Keep your senses sharp, then.”

Ven’fir grunted his assent, trusting V’lante to have his back. While kind of an ass, he was as skilled and powerful a combatant as any would wish for.

* * *

This was _not_ what either of them had expected.

The air was dusty and dry, and it chafed their lungs as they breathed it.

The cave system widened into a hollowed-out chamber, which seemed to have been the unfortunate end of some enterprising treasure hunters many years ago. Many, _many_ years, considering the dusty bones that laid on crumbling bedrolls, still in the positions they had fallen asleep and subsequently died in.

How cheerful.

That wasn’t the strange part.

Part of the chamber had collapsed, dust and rubble thrown over the smoothed floor.

The cave in was small and apparently not natural, considering the wire of detonite that still ran from under the pile of rocks.

Someone was pulling away at the rubble, tugging at the wire.

Ven’fir had deactivated his lightsaber so as not to get spotted as soon as they entered the chamber, and a quick glance at V'lante told him that the other Jedi was equally taken aback.

Neither of them were the stealthy type, so when Ven’fir’s foot sent a pebble skittering over the stone, the figure jumped and stood, aiming a blaster at them.

They both went very still.

The man was Imperial, judging by his ragged and dusty uniform. A Captain, going by the bars on his lapel.

His hands shook a little as they gripped the blaster, and Ven’fir could feel a torrent of emotion from him, rushing by faster than he could make sense of.

Fear screamed at him, but hate and joy and sadness warred for a place in the man’s psyche.

He was gaunt and wild eyed, his dark hair messy and covered in dust.

“Stay back!” he ordered, steady. Ven’fir marvelled at how controlled he sounded, considering how much he could feel from him.

“Who are you?” Ven’fir asked, and blue eyes settled on him. It was an intense look, considering the state of him.

“None of your business, _Jedi.”_ The man spat, his blaster moving to point at Ven’fir's forehead.

The mirialan shrugged, smiling.

“Considering we are investigating reports of people potentially breaking into somewhere they shouldn’t be, I think it is our business.” He countered. “Especially now we've seen... whatever this is.”

Ven’fir peered behind the man, and something like horror bloomed in his gut.

He made an aborted movement, before stopping himself.

Under the rubble, jutting from the jagged rock and choking dust, was a _hand._

“There's someone under there!” he blurted out, horrified.

The Captain sneered, and the blaster didn’t move.

“Don’t you dare move,” he snapped. “This is none of your business. Leave.”

V'lante tilted his head.

“You have to admit that this is suspicious,” he murmured, “Very much so, in fact.”

Ven’fir looked at the hand again. It was slim, and smaller than his own. Possibly female. It was hard to see under the dust, but the skin looked crimson.

“Who is that?” he asked, allowing peace to calm his heart. Control. Only control.

“That,” the Captain said with an oddly satisfied tone, “Is none of your business.”

V'lante growled something under his breath. “Let us help you,” he said, and it sounded like an order.

The man bristled. “Don’t you move.” He snarled, “I don’t need help.”

Ven’fir shook his head. “Clearly, you do. You'll never get those rocks off her. Let us help.”

There was something panicked in the man’s expression, and Ven’fir couldn’t understand why he felt such a bloom of satisfaction from him.

Until- oh. _Oh._

“You did this.” He murmured, and the Imperial stared. “You set off the charges when she was underneath. You’re not trying to dig her out, you’re trying to remove the evidence.”

Something manic entered the human’s eye. “Well done,” he muttered, “I won’t bother asking how you knew that.”

Leather created as V'lante clenched his fists.

“So, you’re not just an _Imperial,_ you’re a murderer.” He bit out. “This is sounding more and more like our business.”

The Captain's expression was intense and an unstable looking smile caught his mouth. Combined with the gauntness of his cheeks and his wide blue eyes, it made him look mad.

“So? I murdered a Sith.” He scoffed. “You Jedi should be celebrating. She deserved it. She deserved so much _worse_.”

The hold of his blaster was shaky, but his aim was true. It wasn’t fear that was making his hands shake, it seemed. There were a lot of reasons for shaking hands besides fear or emotion, and few of them good.

Substance abuse was one, as was nerve damage or degeneration. Ven’fir wondered which one this officer had.

He looked at him again.

His uniform was loose in some places, like he had lost a lot of weight since it had been fitted. His eyes were ringed in deep, dark circles and his cheeks were gaunt. Frown lines creased his forehead, and he had a black eye. It was old, and the purplish bruising was turning green at the edges.

There were marks on his neck. Bruising, both old and new, and sharper looking blotches that looked like bites.

A long welt ran horizontally over the side of his neck and curved so that Ven’fir couldn’t see the end of it, but he had seen marks like that before.

A collar.

Several things clicked in his head, and he wished they hadn’t.

“She was hurting you, wasn’t she?” he asked softly, and the man swallowed hard, which must have been painful. The hold on his blaster wavered.

“Shut up.” He managed, but his voice was weak.

“You either planned this, or took the opportunity when you saw it.” Ven'fir continued, “But you killed her.”

“Of _course_ I killed her,” he snapped, “As soon as she told me what our mission was, I started planning. She never even saw it coming.” He said with a satisfied little smile. It didn’t suit his face.

“And now when I am _finally_ free, two Jedi stumble in and ruin everything.” He looked like misery personified. “You'll kill me.” He said with certainty. “But I suppose I at least got to kill her before you put me down.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Ven’fir assured, just as V'lante took an aggressive step forward.

The man stumbled back a few steps, his eyes furious and the blaster pointed at V’lante.

“What are you _doing?”_ Ven’fir hissed, surprised.

V’lante didn’t look at him.

“He's too dangerous to live.” He muttered. “He's already proven he can kill in cold blood, and he's _Imperial_.”

With deliberate slowness, the Miraluka reached to his belt and unclipped one of his lightsabers. He ignited it, and pale sea green lit the chamber.

“Beryon,” Ven’fir stressed, hoping that using his first name would have some effect. “We can’t be judge, jury and executioner.”

The other Jedi shook his head.

“Yes,” he said grimly, “We can.”

Okay, that was true. They could. The issue was if they _should_.

“I’m not saying we should let him go, but we should at least bring him with us. What if he has useful information?” He wheedled.

V'lante didn’t look convinced, and before Ven’fir could do anything, he reached out his free hand and used the Force to rip the blaster from the Captain’s grip.

He cried out and stumbled back a few steps, but his eyes remained fixed on V’lante. HE was shaking like a leaf.

Ven’fir had noted a spike of fear when V'lante had stretched out his hand. Probably bad memories.

Without thinking, he ignited his own weapon.

Strong violet warred with sea green for the privilege of lighting the chamber.

“V'lante, no.” He said simply. “I will take him on my ship. I’m a better healer than you.”

“You would fight me over an _Imperial?_ ”

Ven’fir shrugged. “Yeah.”

A moment of pause, before the other Jedi relented and stowed his weapon.

“Fine. You deal with this, I’ll go back and clear our departure with the authorities.” He grunted, annoyed.

“Thank you,” Ven’fir murmured, barely looking at him as the Miraluka started to leave.

“Careful with him,” V’lante warned as he walked away. “He's dangerous.”

When the echo of his footsteps had faded, Ven’fir deactivated his blade and clipped it back onto his belt.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

The Imperial looked skittish, and he clenched his hands.

“Was he warning you, or me?” he asked shrewdly, and Ven’fir blinked.

“Oh, I... well, I don’t know.” He said with a shrug and a smile.

The Imperial didn’t return it.

“What happens now?” he asked, suspicious and wary.

Ven’fir nodded towards the rubble.

“First, we make it look like I killed her,” he said like it was obvious. “And you, preferably.”

The Captain blinked.

“You know, to cover our tracks? I can’t imagine the Empire will be happy you murdered a Sith, even if she did deserve it. And more.”

Something warm was flickering in his belly, and the nagging feeling of disobeying something hung in his mind.

All of a sudden, he felt quite red.

“But first... what’s your name?” he asked the human, who lowered his gaze.

“Captain Quinn, Imperial army.”

“Knight Ven’fir, Jedi.” He said with a warm smile. “Now, I have some Kolto and a medkit, so patch yourself up while I sort this out, alright?”

He tossed the medkit to the Quinn, who caught it deftly. With a last suspicious look, he sat on a rock and began tending to his wounds. He was good at it, too.

“Are you a medic?” Ven’fir asked as he used the Force to move boulders and rubble.

“Yes.” Came the terse, singular word, and Ven’fir smiled at the snippy reply.

He moved rocks and gradually uncovered more of the body. It was half broken and crushed, but he managed to unclip the lightsaber and throw it aside, before reburying everything. He ignored the urge to make sure it wasn’t breathing by using his lightsaber.

As a flourish, he drew his weapons and added some artful sweeps and scores in the rock, to make it look like a fight.

All the while, he kept his senses on Quinn. The man didn’t seem inclined to try and kill him, but Ven’fir didn’t kid himself that it was because of any other reason than physical weakness.

“There.” He proclaimed, admiring his handiwork. “Done. That'll fool anyone not looking too closely.”

Quinn, packing up the last of the medical supplies, nodded.

“Unlikely anyone will bother searching, but if they do then this will help.” He tossed the depleted medkit back, sharp eyed.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked, tilting his head.

It was an endearing quirk.

Ven’fir paused, thinking.

“I’m not entirely sure.” He admitted. “I just... I suppose I feel some measure of pity for you, although that isn’t the biggest reason. I think killing you would be a waste.” He decided. “You've never known freedom, have you? It would be cruel to kill you moments after you earned it.”

Quinn was quiet, expression troubled.

“I planned ahead for this, but after the initial idea of how to get back to the Empire, I didn’t know what to do.” He murmured, as though he wasn’t really speaking to Ven’fir at all.

Ven’fir shrugged. “Well, for now, we go back the spaceport and get in my ship. I’ll heal you on the journey.”

Quinn looked up, shrewd.

“Journey to where?” He asked, wary. “A Republic prison?”

Ven’fir ignored the unease in his belly. “No, they wouldn’t do that.” He assured. “I’m going to go to the Council. They will be able to help you."

“I don’t need help.” Came the immediate reply, and the Jedi shook his head. What a stupid thing to say.

“Everyone needs help eventually.”

* * *

Getting Quinn on the ship was surprisingly easy. The man was clearly exhausted and weak, so he was inclined to follow and do what he was told.

Actually trying to help him proved more difficult.

Quinn wasn’t actively resisting, but every time Ven’fir got close to him he would flinch and go still.

He apologised and it was clearly embarrassing for him, but Ven’fir could only feel deep pity.

He took his shirt off in the medbay and Ven’fir wanted to go back to that awful planet, dig up the Sith and make extra sure she was dead.

Quinn’s skin was covered with scratches and the occasional welt. His neck was bruised so much Ven’fir could hardly bare to look. There were bites littering his throat and clavicle, and the mark from where a collar had rubbed was sore.

His black eye was healing and his split lip was doing better, but he was thin and didn’t sleep.

His hands shook, and it was with great difficulty and much snarling that he wormed the truth from the officer.

Performance enhancing stims, enough that withdrawal was going to be a _bitch_.

He sighed.

He wasn’t a dedicated healer, he wasn’t good at this. He was a warrior, and not good at much else.

He wasn’t even very good at being a Jedi. He kept breaking all their rules.

He sighed again, and aimed a tired smile at Quinn.

“I’m going to heal you, alright?” he explained, and the officer nodded dully. “I’m going to put my hands on you and stay still until I’m done.”

Tired blue met his own grey eyes, and the officer sighed.

“I know. You’re only trying to help, I get that. I just- I hate this.”

Ven’fir nodded, sad.

“Yeah, I know you do.”

With nothing more needing to be said, he settled behind the officer and gently laid his bare hands on his back. The flinch was there and he was very tense, but he didn’t shy away.

Ven’fir called on the Force to aid him, directing it to flow into the other man, to fill him up with soft light and cool relief and to wash his darkness away.

Slowly, the more recent wounds began to close.

Quinn didn’t relax until he withdrew the Force. Oddly enough, he relaxed while Ven’fir's hands were still on him.

“She bit you,” he observed, stepping away.

Quinn blushed.

Oh. That was a nice splash of colour on his pale cheeks.

“Yes. We were lovers.” He admitted quietly, tired. Ven’fir got the feeling he wouldn’t be so candid if he wasn’t sleep deprived. “She ordered me to her bed, and I complied.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘lovers' to me,” he admitted.

Quinn gave him a look as he pulled his shirt on.

Ven’fir needed to find him some more clothes.

“What would a Jedi know about it, anyway?” he asked, curious. “I thought you were all emotionless and celibate.”

Ven’fir snorted.

“If you’re a good Jedi, you are. I’m not a good Jedi.” He said with a self-deprecating grin as he put the kolto away.

Quinn shrugged. “You’ve been better than any others I’ve met.”

Something warm flared in Ven’fir’s belly, and he couldn’t contain his smile.

* * *

“Come _on_ Quinn, don’t be difficult.”

“I am _not_ bring difficult, I just don’t feel comfortable-"

Ven’fir sighed, and looked at the other man, eyes pleading.

“You can’t stay in those rags forever.” He tried to explain. “We need to find you some clothes and mine are too big.”

Quinn scowled. “I am an officer of the Imperial military.”

“I know you are, but you’re also looking like you crawled out of a garbage skiff.” Ven’fir shot back. “You don't have to throw it away, just let me get you something that fits.”

The man looked awkward.

“Jedi, I don’t have any money.”

Ven’fir blinked.

“Oh, I was going to buy it for you.”

He held up a hand as Quinn went to protest.

“I’m not helping you,” he assured firmly. “I’m facilitating you helping yourself. You can pay me back if you want, alright?”

There was a pause before Quinn sighed, and pinned him with a beady stare.

“Keep a record of what I owe you,” he ordered, and Ven’fir breathed a sigh of relief.

That man was stubborn as a bantha.

Still, it was worth it to see him walk out from the shop with bags in his hands, looking pleased.

They had stopped at a smugglers port, a large, cobbled together space station in orbit around a huge gas giant. Absolutely no one cared who you were as long as you didn’t cost them money.

Ven’fir loved the sleazy charm of the place, and while Quinn turned his nose up at it, Ven’fir thought he secretly quite liked it too.

When he stepped out onto the bridge after getting changed, Ven’fir marvelled at the difference in him.

Sturdy and practical clothing, his hair washed and brushed through and his stubble trimmed, he looked like a new man.

He managed a shy looking smile, and Ven’fir felt that dangerous warmth again.

“You look good.” He assured. “Really good.”

The Imperial smiled wider, and Ven’fir decided he was probably in trouble.

* * *

The journey was a long one, considering that Tython was almost the opposite side of the galaxy to the little hellhole they had been on.

Two weeks in, Ven’fir woke to find Quinn in the kitchen, cooking.

Wary, he cleared his throat and watched the Imperial jump.

Quinn pinned him with a glare.

“Don't do that.”

Ven’fir smiled apologetically, and his eyes roved over the ingredients. Nothing that _looked_ like poison, but that didn’t say much.

“What are you doing?” He asked, and Quinn shot him another look.

“Yoga.” He said flatly, “I’m making breakfast, _obviously_. I got sick of doing nothing. I need to earn my keep.”

Oh.

“You really don’t.” Ven’fir assured.

Quinn's knuckles were white on the handle of the knife he was holding.

“Please, Jedi.” He muttered quietly. “Let me do _something.”_

The type who couldn’t stand to be idle, then.

“Well, what have you made?” he asked, peering at it.

“Just scrambled oro eggs.” Was the reply, less tense now Ven’fir hadn’t exploded on him.

Ven’fir smiled, and resolved to check for poison as soon as he got the chance.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and tried to ignore how the pink on the officer's cheeks made his belly flutter.

Quinn ate with him, and he was looking immeasurably healthier after two weeks of care.

Ven’fir wanted to talk to him more, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

“What's your first name?” he asked suddenly, curious.

Quinn paused, and raised an eyebrow.

“Forward, aren’t you?”

“I am?” he asked, baffled. Was this an Imperial thing?

“In the Empire, your first name is something very personal.” Quinn explained. “It’s only used with permission, and usually only for those you’re very close with.”

“I had no idea,” Ven’fir admitted. “Is it weird for you that I gave you my first name?”

Quinn shrugged.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know.” He said simply, “You're a Jedi. Your job is to kill us, not understand us.”

He took a sip of water. “It was a little strange, but I figured that was just the way of Republic.”

Ven’fir nodded. “It is. Also, I only have one name,” he admitted. “No family name.”

“Orphan?” Quinn asked bluntly, and Ven’fir chuckled at his lack of social grace.

“No. My parents were well known Jedi, and they broke the rules when they had an affair. I was the result. The choice was either to ship me off to a Coruscanti orphanage until I manifested my powers, whereupon the Jedi would find me again and train me like any other child. Or, I would stay at the temple and live at the creche until I was old enough. I wasn’t allowed to use either of their last names, so that I didn’t accidentally get special treatment.”

Bitterness led you to the dark side. Let it go. _Let it go._

Quinn was still for a moment.

“That's... horrible.” He decided.

Ven’fir shrugged.

“It’s in the past. I don’t dwell on it.”

_Let it go._

* * *

Supply stops were always a time of nervousness for Ven’fir, no matter how much he meditated.

Quinn could escape. He could take off and lose himself in the bustle of the spaceport, and Ven’fir would never find him again.

He never did.

Still, the thought lingered.

He did wonder why Quinn wasn’t trying to escape harder.

The man seemed to be content to bustle around the ship keeping busy, and while Ven’fir had asked the ship’s droid to keep an eye on him while Ven’fir was busy, he hadn’t sabotaged _anything._

He seemed to get less and less jumpy with each day that passed, and his wounds were healing well.

He still flinched when Ven’fir used the Force near him though, and he realised that it wasn’t physical touch that he had issue with, but the Force.

Apparently, Lord Thyrisé had liked using the Force to choke him. Ven’fir shivered at the thought.

When Ven’fir had been checking the bruising on his neck, he had been frozen the whole time, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands.

So, neck touching was not good.

Ven’fir asked him about it one day.

“Why haven’t you tried to kill me and take my ship yet?”

Quinn blinked and paused his fixing of the wonky chair in the kitchen. He sat up, and crossed his legs. A smear of something was on his cheek and his hair was a mess.

“I don’t know what else to do.” He murmured, expression falling. “I... I can’t go back to the Empire now, and I wouldn’t know where to go even if I did manage to kill a Jedi and take his ship.”

He played with the tool in his hands.

“I... I don’t have anything to escape _to.”_

Ven’fir swallowed hard.

“Well, we'll get to the Council soon.” He assured, “And then we can see about helping you.”

Quinn didn’t look convinced.

“If you say so.”

* * *

The closer they got to Tython, the more Ven’fir realised that he would miss Quinn.

They talked.

Quinn wasn’t the chatty sort, but he liked to listen. Ven’fir liked to talk, and he enjoyed describing the places that he had been or the people he had seen to the officer.

Quinn taught him how to cook several Imperial dishes, and in return he taught the officer a few of his own.

When the to-do lists were exhausted, they played pazaak or chess in the evenings. Ven’fir helped the officer with his recovery as much as he could, but he ended up just spotting him during training since the man was a medic and therefore much more knowledgeable about this kind of thing than he was.

Still, Quinn wasn’t sleeping well. Ven’fir didn’t travel with a crew, so the bunks were empty. Quinn had the pick of them, but the droid still reported seeing him working or exercising during the night.

Ven’fir didn’t know how to help him.

He wanted to, but he didn’t know how.

One night, when the shakes were getting really bad, he found the officer curled up on the sofa, riding out the nausea and the chills.

Silently, Ven’fir came and sat next to him, hoping to ground him in the here and now.

It seemed to work a little. So, wary getting something pointy in his ribs, he risked putting a hand of Quinn's shoulder.

To his surprise, the officer leaned into his touch. Risking it again, Ven’fir moved his arm to sit around his shoulders.

Quinn let him, and curled into his side.

“Sorry,” he managed from between chattering teeth. “I’m s-sorry, it’s the-"

“You don’t need to explain or apologise,” Ven’fir interrupted gently. “Just... ride it out, yes?”

He couldn’t tell if the officer was nodding or just shaking, but when the medicine finally got to work calming his shakes, he stayed close.

When Ven’fir looked at him, he was asleep.

Something soft and warm wrapped itself around each of his ribs and squeezed, settling there and purring contentedly.

He shifted slightly, and held the officer closer.

When Quinn woke a few hours later, he flushed bright pink and apologised profusely.

Awkwardly, he admitted that being alone in the crew bunk was difficult because when he woke from a nightmare, he had nothing familiar around him. He was alone, frightened, and in an unfamiliar place.

Lord Thyrisé had often come in at night to drag him to her bed, he explained in a whisper. Waking to her bodily dragging him out of bed because he hadn’t woken fast enough meant that sleeping was not a peaceful experience.

Bright red and deeply embarrassed, he explained that Ven’fir was safe. He was gentle. He was the complete opposite of Thyrisé, and that was grounding. He didn’t look or act or feel like her. He was _safe._

So, Ven’fir did something stupid and asked him if he wanted to sleep in his quarters for a night.

Quinn awkwardly refused four times before relenting and accepting.

The dark circles slowly started disappearing under the officers eyes as the nights rolled on. Ven’fir pretended the arrangement was for Quinn's benefit only.

Ven’fir was _definitely_ in trouble.

* * *

Both of them knew, but neither said anything.

* * *

Tython loomed in the view screen.

To Ven’fir, it was home. The lush forests and ruins and streams were his childhood, and he wanted to show them all to Quinn.

Quinn, who looked at the view screen like it was his death sentence.

“Jedi-" he began, but Ven’fir rested a hand on his shoulder.

“It'll be alright. They’ll help,” he said confidently. “And... it’s been good having you here.” He admitted. “You're a great help on the ship. Maybe... maybe I’ll ask them if you can be assigned to me?” he offered, hopeful.

Quinn's shoulders relaxed minutely.

“I would like that.” He said quietly.

Ven’fir squeezed his shoulder before heading to the pilots seat and bringing them in to land.

 Butterflies trembled in his belly.

He brought the ship down.

* * *

“Request denied.”

Ven’fir's blood felt cold in his veins.

“What?” He asked, not caring if he was being rude.

Master Kaedan sighed.

“Request denied, Knight.” He repeated firmly. “Captain Quinn is considered too valuable a resource to waste helping you keep your ship in once piece. Besides, the Council has decided that he is still a potential danger. He will he kept here, until we can be certain he is not a spy.”

Ven’fir swallowed hard. His heart beat echoed in his ears.

“Then I request to be grounded, Masters.” He said firmly, “Until which time Captain Quinn is cleared and can join my crew.”

Master Kiwiiks shook her head.

“No, Knight.” She murmured; eyes kindly. “You are... not suitable.”

A flash of something hot.

“Mind your anger, Knight.” Came the quick reproach from Master Kaedan. “This is exactly why we decided as we did. You are being led astray by your emotions.”

“Masters, I know I’ve not exactly been the easiest student, but haven’t I always tried to do the right thing?” He all but pleaded. “You have no idea what the Sith did to him. If I leave him now, what do you think that will show him? That the Jedi are as heartless as the Sith? That we don’t care about people unless we can get something from them?”

“You are letting your heart rule your head, Knight.” Master Traless said simply with a hint of pity, “The decision has been made.”

That hot flash again.

“So, I’m to be ignored.” He said bitterly. “Again. What a surprise.”

“You are out of line, Knight.” Master Kaedan warned. “You will be grounded here, but you will have no contact with Captain Quinn. You will be aided in restoring your peace.”

“Fuck peace.” Ven’fir muttered to himself as he stormed out, the look on his face enough to dissuade anyone from speaking to him.

He headed straight for the room where he had left Quinn. He was still there, and the padawan guarding the place let him in without trouble.

It seemed the Masters hadn’t decided he was to be detained yet.

Quinn looked up when he entered, and his expression was drawn and worried.

“We have to go.” Ven’fir muttered, heart beating fast.

He couldn’t let Quinn become a prisoner. It wasn’t fair.

“It went badly, I take it?” the Imperial asked, something shaky in his voice.

“Yep,” Ven’fir grunted. “You’re going to be a prisoner, and I’m going to be grounded until I can purge my emotions again. Except we won’t, because we're leaving. Now.”

Quinn's eyes were wide and he looked startled.

“But, you can’t leave the Jedi!” He protested. “Not for me. You _can’t_.”

Ven’fir whirled on him, something fiery in his chest that he couldn’t identify.

“I think this has been a long time coming.” He admitted. “And... i'm glad it was because of you.”

He grabbed Quinn's hand, and guided him out of the room, past the confused padawan and down the hall.

Horrible feelings fought for dominance in his mind.

He would never walk these halls again.

He would never take a stroll in the forests or dip his toes in the cold streams of Tython. He would never sneak away to Kalikori and drink fermented beer with the locals, nor laugh and spar with their warriors.

He would never have to bow his head when given an order he didn’t agree with.

He wouldn’t see the indifferent faces as he pleaded a case to the Masters.

He wouldn’t taste disappointment when he felt something.

He focused on Quinn's hand in his.

His friend.

He couldn’t abandon him. Not like this.

They headed around a corner and towards the docking bay.

They all but skidded around to the landing pad, and Ven’fir froze.

Quinn squeezed his hand.

“I should have known you would do something stupid,” V’lante called to him, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a crate. “But I didn’t think it would be _this_ stupid.”

“Listen, they-"

“I know.” V’lante interrupted with a grim expression. “Master Kaedan told me. I think I’m supposed to stop you.”

He shrugged.

Ven’fir swallowed hard.

He and V’lante had always been equals on the battlefield. Fighting him now would not be a quick or easy battle.

“Beryon, _please.”_ He pleaded, “I can’t-“

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” V’lante griped, “I’m not stopping you. Go.”

Ven’fir blinked at him. “I… you’re letting us go?” he asked, daring to hope.

The other Jedi shrugged, although his shoulders were tense. “Yeah. It was going to happen eventually. I just never thought an Imp would be the catalyst.”

Quinn was coiled tight as a spring at his side, and a glance in his direction told Ven’fir that he had a hand on a hidden blade at the small of his back. Ven’fir had asked him not to bring that.

V’lante looked pained.

“Just go.” He said lowly, “Be happy, yeah?”

Something hard made it painful to swallow. “I’ll try. If you ever need me, call.” He said firmly. “I’ll come.”

V’lante just nodded and waved a dismissive hand at them. They ran past him, up into the bowels of the ship.

Quinn headed straight for the pilot’s seat and gave Ven’fir a look when the Jedi tried to open his mouth.

“Don’t.” he grunted, “I know how to fly one of these and I’m a better pilot than you.”

Slightly offended, Ven’fir watched as they took off, the Temple fading into a pinprick and then into nothing at they headed for atmo.

Some great feeling of loss made his knees weak, and he collapsed into the co-pilot’s chair.

He had left the Jedi.

Left his _life._

He stayed like that until they were far enough away that Quinn put the ship into autopilot and stood up.

He knelt in front of Ven’fir, expression concerned.

“Are you alright?” he asked, brow creased with worry. “If you want to go back, you can pretend I forced you to-“

“No,” Ven’fir interrupted. “I… I think I would have left eventually. I never fit in. It was the right thing to do, but that doesn’t make it any easier.” He admitted. “I’ve only ever been a Jedi. I don’t know anything else.”

Quinn managed a small, humourless smile.

“Tell me about it.” He said softly, and Ven’fir chuckled.

Suddenly, he felt very tired.

The ship felt different somehow, even though physically nothing about it had changed. He’d stolen it now, for one. It had been his home and still was, but it felt different because now he wasn’t a Jedi flying where he was bid, but an exile on the run. There were no more missions, no more orders.

He sighed and stood up, stretching. His armour felt odd now. It was the armour of a Jedi. He would need to change it.

Maybe he could wear something that wasn’t brown or white, now.

 _There_ was a thought.

“Want some caf?” he asked, and Quinn nodded gratefully.

“ _Stars_ , do I.”

When they were leaning against the bulkhead, too wired to feel like sitting, Ven’fir set down his half-full mug.

“I have no idea what to do now.” He admitted. “No idea at all.”

Quinn regarded him over the rim of his own mug, which he set aside when he shrugged.

“Anything you want, isn’t that what you told me?”

Ven’fir looked at him.

What a different person he was now, to that manic, terrified thing they had found in a cave, standing over the fresh body of his tormentor. He was getting back to a healthy weight again, and his face wasn’t gaunt anymore. Dressed in the sturdy, well-fitting clothes of a spacer, he could have been anyone. The stubble clinging to his jaw softened his face, and those blue eyes were looking at him with such fondness that it took his breath away.

“I suppose I did.” He smiled tiredly. “I’ve never not been a Jedi. Although I suppose I wasn’t a very good one.”

Quinn shook his head.

“Does that matter? You’re a good man, and that’s better than being a good Jedi.”

Well, that was nice to hear.

He smiled.

“And you’re alright, I _suppose_. For an Imperial.”

He laughed when Quinn gave him an unimpressed look.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Quinn looked surprised.

“What for?” the human asked, quizzical. “All I have done is cause you misfortune.”

Ven’fir shook his head.

“No, I’m glad I met you.” He said, honest.

He paused and smiled slyly. Quinn looked suspicious.

“I suppose since I’m not a Jedi anymore, I don’t need to feel bad about doing _this_.”

Before the human could speak again, Ven’fir leaned in and kissed him soundly.

His mouth was warm, and he tasted like caf. He melted against Ven’fir the moment he realised what he was doing.

Ven’fir wrapped one arm around his waist and pressed him close, the other coming up to cup his cheek.

Force, that felt so _perfect._

He felt like the warmth and light of the nearest star was in his veins, like he had come home after a long and difficult trip.

He kissed the man whose first name he didn’t even know on the bridge of a stolen ship, and everything was right with his world.

Quinn kissed back, keeping him close with hands tangling in the lapels of his robe. He kissed Ven’fir like he was a drowning man, desperate for a breath of air. He kissed like he thought he was dreaming and wanted to savour the moment before it turned to vapour and memory.

They parted, staying close enough to touch noses, catching their breath.

Neither of them said anything for several moments, things between them staying comfortably warm.

“I’ve never kissed a Jedi before,” Quinn murmured with a little smile, delighted and shy. His pale cheeks were pink, and his eyes were bright.

Ven’fir laughed. “Technically, you still haven’t.” he said, before kissing him again.

“We can go anywhere,” he said, punctuating every few words with a kiss. “And do anything.” Another kiss. “ _Be_ anything.”

Quinn looked bright and alive, and his smile was everything Ven’fir had ever wanted.

“I think then,” he breathed, staying close enough to feel the warmth from them. “That you should call me Malavai.”

Ven’fir almost melted, then and there.

“Malavai.” He said slowly, testing how the word felt on his tongue. “Malavai.”

He grinned, and kissed the human again, delighted. Malavai laughed into the kiss.

“Where shall we go first?” Ven’fir asked, giddy.

Malavai smiled at him.

“Anywhere we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They enjoy a happy ending where they become explorers and dashing adventurers with a bit of smuggling on the side, get married and generally be sickeningly happy together. Ven can't give up a lifetime of being a good person and flies around being a for-the-people kind of outlaw hero, with Malavai following in his wake and doing all the practical stuff. They do encounter their respective factions again, but it's not as awful as they expect. They don't need them any more.
> 
> Ven isn't such a brat here as he wasn't raised as a spoiled rich boy, but he's still a bit too passionate for the Order. Neither he or the Council is right or wrong, but he makes for a bad Jedi, even if he tries to be a good person.
> 
> Incidentally, Lord Thyrisé is my alt warrior that I couldn't finish a playthough on. She's too evil, and I'm a huge wet blanket over this kind of thing. She is also the one who Malavai serves in FTS before canon.


	44. Hiding under my bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempest Squad got the job done.

It was dusty, down here.

They hadn’t bothered to clean under the bed in years because, well, who ever saw down there anyway?

Some old toys packed away in boxes, kept for sentiment and the long off hope that their children might one day give them to their own little ones. A couple of battered suitcases they had forgotten about because they had bought new ones years ago but these ones did still work and it would be a shame to throw them away...

The plastic back off an earring.

A single cheap sandal, partner long lost.

It was funny really, how much one noticed in situations like this.

Senses heightened and the brain started thinking in odd knots.

She held her breath, hoping that the dust would leave her be and not make her cough.

After all, that would give away her hiding place.

There was barely enough room under the bed in the spare room for a grown woman, let alone one that was partial to flatcakes and hated the gym.

Intrusive thoughts.

She could hear them downstairs.

Her wife was trying to talk them down.

She always had been a good talker.

Quick. Charming. Always able to make a friend.

She shivered, and wondered how long she would be hiding under the bed for.

Her shoulders hurt.

Everything seemed hypersensitive, but also oddly muted. She was watching through the eyes of another, except she could feel _everything._

She wanted to wake up now.

She heard voices again, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Those accents. They were _Imperial._

Clarel had been making their lunch while she finished off the cleaning. She hadn’t realised what had happened at first, thought the loud bang and Clarel’s shout of surprise had been something falling over or a speeder misfiring in the street outside.

Then there had been the voices, shouting orders and heavy footsteps on the floorboards.

Military. Professional.

She tried to control her breathing. Hyperventilating wouldn’t help anyone.

She could hear Clarel talking downstairs. Her words were fast and panicked and she wanted to run down there and help but she knew she would only make things worse. What could she do to help? She was a housewife, and her only skills were cooking, playing the reed flute and eating a whole packet of flatcakes in one sitting.

Clarel was the smart one. The successful one.

Heavy boots sounded on the stairs.

Muffled voices, the accents unmistakable but distorted in a way that she knew would make them hard to identify without the modulator.

She remembered the days of Imperial Intelligence, how people would go missing from their beds and never be seen again. The war with Zakuul hadn’t dimmed those memories. She and her wife were normal. Nobodies. Who would come after _them?_

“Search the rooms,” one of the intruders ordered. Their voice was male, their accent lilting and seemingly from the outer Imperial colonies.

“Copy that,” the other said, and she was surprised to hear a woman’s voice in a Republic drawl. What was happening here? “I’ll take back, you take front.”

“Copy.”

They moved carefully, and she spotted their boots moving from a crack under the door. That door had never hung right, not after Clarel had tried to hang it herself instead of paying someone to come and do it. Now, it allowed her to see where their boots blocked the light.

“Clear!” one called, and it was mirrored by their partner. “Moving to the next room.”

She lay, petrified and hurting, listening as the intruders searched her home. She could still hear the voices from downstairs, Clarel talking at breakneck speed as she was questioned by a man with a sharp Kaasian accent. She couldn’t make out their exact words.

Boots paused outside the door.

She forgot to breathe.

The door opened slowly, and the intruder stepped cautiously inside. She could only stare at black, rubber soled boots as they moved around the room, quiet and deliberate. She heard them move things, check behind the blinds and in the wardrobe.

_They were going to find her._

She wasn’t going to be able to run, or to keep hiding. If she came out now, they might just shoot her. If she kept hiding, they would find her and drag her out. They might shoot her anyway.

Paralysed by indecision she could only watch as the boots came to rest inches from her face. The boots took a step back, and she almost let herself hope for a second before the intruder’s knees bent and she came face to face with a full-face helmet. She looked into the plexiglass plating of the eyes and saw only her own reflection, distorted and terrified.

“We’ve got one!” the woman called, her Republic accent sounding odd in her modulated helmet. She reached in and grabbed her, and the contact was enough to make her flinch away, calling out. Fear ran through her veins, buzzing and cold. She felt trapped and claustrophobic.

“Oh no you don’t.” came a mutter, before she was grabbed by the arm and pulled out from under the bed. She thrashed and screamed, her head empty of though save for the instinct to _run._

_She needed to get away._

Something impacted the side of her head and she saw blackness for a moment, swaying on her feet and falling to her knees. Disorientated and in pain, she barely noticed when she was hauled to her feet.

“Careful, Thamar.” Came a commanding voice, tone cool. It was the male voice from before. “Don’t hit her too hard. We need her awake.”

The woman holding her scoffed.

“Little bitch screamed my ears off.” She grunted, “I’ve got better hearing than you humans do, Montclaire.”

Montclaire didn’t respond to that.

“Is the rest clear?” he asked, and her vision swam as she looked at them. They were dressed in identical black gear, dark body armour overlaid over equally dark fatigues. Not a single bit of skin was visible, and it was impossible to tell from their bulky, armoured figures if they were male of female or even their species. The helmets were faceless and unnerving, reflective plexiglass visors betraying nothing.

“Yep, all clear. Think the boss will let me wire up a bit of detonite?” Thamar asked eagerly as she dragged her towards the landing.

Montclaire kept his rifle up, wary. “Probably not. This isn’t a destroy kind of mission.”

Thamar sighed. “You’re no fun.”

“And you’re a maniac.”

They dragged her downstairs, her feet falling from under her a few times on the stairs.

The kitchen was the same as when she had been in there half an hour ago. It smelled like the stew Clarel had been about to serve, which was bubbling away on the stove.

It was hard to reconcile the intruders with her home.

Clarel was sitting, restrained in on of their dining chairs, the one with the broken cushion that she had been meaning to replace, and she was talking at breakneck speed.

When she saw her, her eyes went wide.

“Talsin!” she called, and made an aborted movement to get up, but another of the black figures kept her down with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Talsin could feel wetness on her cheeks and rolling down her chin. They were tears. They forced her into another chair.

“Upstairs?” One of the figures, smaller and of indeterminate gender asked.

“Clear.” The Montclaire reported, adjusting the grip on his rifle. “Thamar found her under the bed.”

“Fisher is keeping watch.” The smaller figure murmured, “Did you find anything for me, sir?”

Montclaire shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

“Quiet.”

Talsin looked towards the speaker. A man, by the timbre of his voice, and Imperial. He was dressed in the same black body armour as the rest of the team, but a single red stripe down one arm made her think he was the leader.

“Grellen, go and see what you can find. Thamar, perimeter sweep.” The man ordered, and the others saluted and did as asked with haste.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t even know who you people are.”

“Be quiet,” Clarel begged her, eyes wide. “Talsin, you don’t-“

“Understand?” Another voice seemed to purr, and Talsin jumped. She hadn’t even seen the last person. Had he always been there?

He was tall and sounded male, and he had a monster of a rifle strapped to his back.

“Of course she doesn’t understand, Clarel.” The man murmured as he circled them. His voice was a pleasant timbre, but it made Talsin shiver anyway.

“You never told her about your… extracurricular activities.” The man all but purred, getting a little too close for comfort before moving away again.

The leader folded his arms and seemed content to watch his subordinate work.

The words seemed to swim into her head through a river of tar.

The man directed his attention to her, now.

“You didn’t know, did you?” he sounded almost pitying. Why did he sound like that? “Your wife is a _traitor_ , darling.”

She blinked and the words didn’t make sense.

“What?”

Clarel shifted in her seat. “I’m not!” she protested. “I don’t know what you’re-“

A crack sounded as the tall man backhanded Clarel so hard her head snapped to the side and she cried out. Talsin jerked forward on instinct.

“Don’t hurt her!” she begged. “I don’t know what you want, but you’ve got the wrong person. She isn’t a… a traitor. She isn’t.”

The tall man seemed relaxed.

“No? We have the trail, you know. We have it all.” He said, resuming his circling. “Holocam footage, holomail, even some notes written on flimsi.” He listed, sounding almost bored. “And the money, of course.”

She got the impression he was smiling. “Naughty naughty, selling out your Empire to Zakuul. I bet the money was nice though, wasn’t it?” he murmured, shrewd. “A bit of extra cash here and there, and for what? A few names, maybe some intel on a design or two? What’s the harm?”

His tone shifted slightly. “You sold out, and the Empire doesn’t take kindly to that kind of thing.”

Clarel’s face was ashen, and her eyes seemed impossibly wide.

Talsin swallowed and it was painful.

There _had_ been more money than usual. Clarel had said it was because of a raise at work. She was sector chief of an armaments company. A nice position, very nice indeed. Government contracts were very lucrative. The Empire paid well.

There had been some holidays, a new speeder and Clarel had surprised her with a new watch for her birthday.

“She- she got a raise at work!” she defended. Clarel wouldn’t do something like that. “You’ve got the wrong person. Maybe- maybe someone set her up!”

The man shrugged. “Maybe, but probably not.” He said simply.

The sunlight peeked from between the drawn curtains. The cheery yellow patterns seemed incongruous with the situation. Some days, she missed the rain of Dromund Kaas.

“So,” he said cheerily, clapping his hands together. They made a muted sound. “If your dear wife doesn’t tell us what she knows, I’m going to put a bullet in your knee.”

Talsin curled away from him on instinct, even though she couldn’t escape.

Clarel looked at her and then to the man again, expression panicked.

“You can’t! She has nothing to do with anything!”

The man shook his head. “She became part of this the moment you sold out your Empire.” He said simply, “And that’s on you.”

Casually, he unholstered a blaster from his belt, and pressed it solidly against the flesh of her knee. Fear flushing her nerves, she struggled, but he didn’t relent.

“Stop moving, or I’ll shoot you just to keep you still.” He grunted.

The blank mask turned to Clarel.

“Well?”

The barrel of the blaster hurt as it pressed into her knee. She felt her breathing quicken.

“Please don’t,” she begged, voice breaking. “Please.”

“That’s up to your wife,” the man said carefully, “And if she thinks saving her skin is worth your pain.”

Clarel swallowed, her skin ashen.

“I-“ she began but her voice failed her. “I didn’t do anything wrong-“

A loud bang rang out and Talsin screamed.

The bullet tore through the soft flesh of her leg, and she had never been in so much pain.

Clarel was shouting for her, and she felt herself waver on the edges of consciousness.

She howled, and her breathing was ragged.

“I shot her above the kneecap.” The man drawled, his aim never wavering. “She will still be able to walk if you get her medical attention. Now, answer my questions or I do it again, but this time I won’t be merciful.”

Mercy.

 _This_ was mercy?

“Please- p-please-“

Clarel looked to her through her tears. “It’s okay, baby.” She tried, her own voice breaking. “It’s gonna be okay. Just- please, just be strong, okay?”

“Talk.” Came the order, and Clarel jumped at the harsh tone.

“I- yes. I did it.” She burst out and Talsin could barely think over the pain. Clarel was admitting it.

She had betrayed the Empire for- what? Money? Power?

_Why?_

She sobbed, trying not to move her leg.

“Go on.”

Clarel began to talk. She spilled details of names, locations, tasks and more. She told them _everything_.

The unwavering resolve that they had made a mistake faded. Clarel really had done this.

The gaping hole of hurt got bigger with every word.

Eventually, there was nothing more to say.

“Please- let us go. I’ve told you everything.” Her wife whispered, a broken woman. Her usually neat hair hung in lank strings in front of her face, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. She wanted to hate her.

Talsin just whimpered.

It hurt so much.

The tall man shrugged and turned towards the one with the crimson stripe on his armour.

“Sir?” he asked, deferring to his leader.

The man had been listening silently, and now he stepped forward.

“I heard, Kal.” He said simply. His tone was flat and cold. “Did you get the names?”

He tall one, Kal, nodded.

“Yes sir. We can begin investigating them immediately.”

“Good.”

There was a pause, the silence broken only by Clarel’s shaky breathing, and Talsin’s tiny sobs.

She couldn’t stop the tears.

“Please,” she begged, and she barely felt able to speak. “You have what you wanted. L-let us go.”

“I’m afraid not.” The leader said coolly, “Your wife betrayed the Empire for profit. That is not something to be taken lightly.”

He considered for a moment.

“Kal? Clean up.”

Kal tilted his head, and the motion looked unnerving with his blank mask.

“Yessir. Home invasion, sir?”

The man nodded. “No traces.”

“Copy that, Major.”

The man, the Major, turned to leave.

“Please, I haven’t done anything wrong!” she called, but her words fell on deaf ears. They ignored her like she was already a corpse.

She looked to Clarel, who was staring at her. She wanted to hate her.

She felt sick.

The Major paused.

“No loose ends. That’s your motto, right Kal?”

The tall one nodded.

“Sure is, sir.” He said, and it sounded like he was smiling. He seemed cheerful.

The Major just nodded and left without a single glance back. He seemed to be speaking into a mic in his helmet, his attention already elsewhere.

“We- we can help you!” she called, struggling. Her leg burned and she almost passed out. “She- she can spy for you! Please, it’s not my fault!”

Kal shook his head. “Sorry darling, but you heard the man.”

He withdrew his pistol again, and almost seemed apologetic if his tone hadn’t been indifferent.

“No loose ends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... you do not want Tempest Squad to come knocking.


	45. If I tell you the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron sighed and rubbed at his eyes.  
> Here he was, thinking he only had to worry about the kriffing Sith.

Theron found it difficult to reconcile where he was with his life right now.

It was... strange, to think of how much had changed in such a short amount of time.

It was like waking up from a dream that you thought had been real, and the vibrancy and reality of the world made everything prior seem colourless.

He still vividly remembered the moment Lana had first made contact with him. He hadn’t known, back then, just how things would spiral from that one moment.

It was bad enough working with her, constantly on edge or assessing her temper.

He had just managed to slip into something like a decent working relationship when she had announced she had an ally in the Empire that she intended to call in, and then Theron was right back where he had been, tense and paranoid.

The Emperor's Wrath.

Well, then.

That was a title that sounded like something to be worried about.

Lana told him what she knew (or more likely, what she thought he should know), and it painted an odd picture.

An alien Sith was surprising enough, but one that had belonged to one of the Empire's most prominent noble families? He had been the personal enforcer of a big shot Darth, and had made a name for himself in his service. Then the Darth betrayed his apprentice because, _Sith._

Theron honestly wondered how the Empire ever got anything _done_.

Wounded, betrayed and disowned, the young Lord gunned for his Master and somehow picked up the title of Emperor’s Wrath along the way.

According to Lana, he barged into a session of the Dark Council, challenged his former Master and proceeded to _obliterate_ him.

He walked into the meeting a disgraced Lord, and exited as Darth Venator, Emperor’s Wrath.

To say nothing else about the guy, Theron could respect the _audacity_.

Theron knew about the Wrath, of course.

He was a _monster._

He had been on the comms when the Empire had invaded Tython, and he had heard the _terror_ in the voices of the soldiers as they died.

“We have confirmation,” he recalled a shaky voice saying on the open channel. “The Wrath is on the field. I repeat, the Emperor’s Wrath has been sighted on the field.”

Theron was as Force blind as they came, but he swore he could feel the chill of a thousand hearts clenching in fear at that news.

The Wrath seemed to be an unstoppable force.

Theron knew that some people in the galaxy were just _more._

The Wrath was a force of _nature_.

He tore through the defences like they were made of flimsi. Survivors spoke of a Mirialan in black armour, twin lightsabers in his hands and claws on his fingertips, cutting through Jedi and mechs like they were nothing.

Masters fell as swiftly as padawans did, and the smell of smoke, blood and hot metal accompanied the trail of ruin that the Wrath left behind him.

He was swift, brutal and savage.

 _That_ was who Lana trusted enough to call on him for help?

Theron made his plans to escape, putting things into motion so he could be gone at a moment’s notice.

In the end, he didn’t need to.

Theron first heard his voice on the comm, and it was so _strange_ to hear such a normal voice on the other end of the call.

He had an Imperial accent with all the bells and whistles but... he didn’t _sound_ like a monster.

He seemed focused and a little sarcastic, a sense of humour showing its head as Theron directed him.

He didn’t seem to be alone, either. Occasionally, Theron would hear the sound of two more voices in the background as the Wrath talked, and wondered who else had ended up mixed up in this.

He wondered if they knew who they were accompanying.

One of the voices, the male one, sounded Imperial, so be probably knew exactly what kind of person he was following. He probably did so gladly.

Then the Wrath had walked into the office that Lana had commandeered for them, and Theron couldn’t help but stare.

Subconsciously, he had imagined the Wrath to be monstrous, heads taller than them all and practically frothing at the mouth with suppressed rage.

Instead, the person who walked towards them was just a man. An impressive one, to be sure, but a man nonetheless.

His deep green skin contrasted with his smile and his eyes, molten gold fading into the colour of fresh lava in a mockery of a limbic circle.

Dark curls brushed his collar, and his matte black armour hugged his figure, built for movement over strength. A long tasset curled around his legs as he walked.

Twin lightsabers hung from his belt, and his hands, fingers tipped in the now infamous metal claws of his gauntlets, were relaxed and open.

He was smiling, the geometric tattoos on his face making his already sharp features look hawkish. He had a defined jawline, and it gave him a handsome air.

“The man behind the comms, I assume?” The Wrath said as he drew closer, tone even.

Theron nodded.

“And you're the one Lana trusts enough to bring in.” He said simply.

As Lana greeted the other Sith, Theron cast his eye to the people who had entered with the him.

The man had so much presence, he had almost overlooked them. One of the them was a young Twi'lek woman, shrewd and cheerful. Twin blasters sat at her hips, and she seemed comfortable in the presence of the Wrath. Theron had assumed her to be a slave, but she wore no collar and seemed happy to stay close to the tiger masquerading as a man that was currently saying hello to Lana.

The other companion was less of a surprise. Human, male, a Captain in the Imperial military if the bars on his immaculate uniform were any indication. He was pale and dark haired, a beauty mark sitting on one sharp cheekbone. Stubble clung to his jaw and he fixed dark blue eyes on the Wrath as though he couldn’t bare not to be looking at him. There was something about the Imperial that set him on edge, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Perhaps he seemed too normal for this ridiculous situation, what with his single blaster and medpack on his belt.

He tuned back in as Lana introduced him. He fixed a smile on his face, but pointedly didn’t extend his hand. As if he would let those claws anywhere _near_ him.

“Theron Shan, SIS.” He said simply.

“Darth Venator,” the Sith responded, smiling at Theron like he wanted to eat him. It was unnerving, to be the focus of that attention. Theron would have passed it off as a Sith thing, but Lana didn’t make him feel like that. It was like standing in a cage with hungry Nexu. “It's a pleasure, Agent Shan.”

“I’m sure,” Theron muttered under his breath, and he saw the Wrath’s smile widen.

Those teeth looked _sharp_.

“May I introduce my companions?” the Wrath asked, before doing so anyway. Theron got the feeling he wasn’t used to ‘no'.

“This is Vette,” he said, and the Twi'lek grinned and waved. She seemed nice enough, but she _was_ in the company of a Sith _._

“And this is Captain Quinn, Imperial army.”

The Imperial remained stone faced, but bowed stiffly, crossing one fist over his heart as he did so.

“A pleasure,” he said in a flat Kaasian drawl. “Lord Beniko. Agent Shan.”

Was it Theron, or did the Imperial’s eyes stay on him a moment too long?

Ugh, Imperials were so _weird._

Theron didn’t feel like it was safe to let his gaze wander from the Wrath, but he forced himself to pay attention to Lana as she brought the newcomers up to speed.

The hairs prickled on the back of his neck, and his muscles were tense. The Wrath had one hell of a presence, and Theron tried to ignore it.

This was going to go _great._

* * *

The Wrath... wasn’t _so_ bad, he supposed.

Late night planning sessions and Lana's impressive ability to make anyone work towards a common goal had let Theron realise that for a Force sensitive monster in humanoid form, the Wrath wasn’t _awful_. He was surprisingly funny, weirdly pleasant to talk to and energetic enough to make Theron tired just _looking_ at him.

He had never imagined that he would one day think of the Emperor's Wrath as _hyperactive._

Theron got a long with Vette quite well, although he expected that the excitable Twi'lek rubbed Lana the wrong way.

Still, Vette was a pleasantly normal presence when he was surrounded by three Imperials.

Captain Quinn, by contrast, was a strange one.

He was clearly loyal to the Wrath, obeying any order or request that was made of him. He came across as a bootlicker until Theron realised that he wasn’t a sycophant, just devoted.

Still, his stuffy nature often annoyed Theron, who was significantly more prone to ‘winging it’ than the somewhat neurotic Captain.

Still, the man made great caf, and was as much of a workaholic as Theron himself was.

A fresh mug had appeared in front of him, and Theron looked up blearily from his holopad to see the Captain taking his seat again, his own mug steaming in his hand.

“Thanks,” Theron managed tiredly. “These reports are as dull as ditch water.”

Captain Quinn glanced up, and Theron envied how put together he still was. He had been working as long as Theron had, and yet he still looked immaculate.

“Yes,” he replied, eyes drifting back to his holopad. “They’re hardly thrilling reading material.”

Theron couldn’t imagine Quinn ever doing anything _thrilling._

Feeling fidgety and needing to move, Theron stretched and rubbed his eyes. “I bet you’re used to it though,” he commented, “Don’t you Imperials have reports on everything? You guys love paperwork.”

“The great machine of the Empire runs on paperwork,” came the dry response. “But I have more to do than most, yes. Darth Venator is... not inclined towards proper procedure.”

Theron snorted.

“Yeah, be doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to enjoy rules.” He admitted, fishing for information. “I bet that gets annoying.”

Quinn glanced up sharply. “Darth Venator will do what he will,” he said simply, something hard in his tone. “And I will do my best to support him, even if that means doing his paperwork.”

Wow. Talk about attached.

“Covering for your boyfriend?” Theron teased a little meanly, tiredness and Imperial stoicism wearing on his nerves.

Quinn's expression was pinched and annoyed, but he looked back to his holopad and took a drink of his caf, black like tar.

“Fiancé.” He said quietly, and Theron blinked.

“What?”

Quinn glanced over; blue eyes cool.

“He's my fiancé, not my boyfriend.”

Theron blinked, letting his brain process that.

Well, then.

“Oh. I was just making fun of you; I didn’t realise you were actually together.” He blurted out, and the Captain gave him a dry look.

“I know.” He said simply. “But my point stands.”

Okay, what the _kriff?_

The Wrath was loud, shameless and impulsive, and the Captain was anything but.

“How does that _work_?” he blurted out, and Quinn looked irritated.

“I didn’t realise the standard of education in the Republic was so shoddy, you don’t know how such a relationship ‘works'.” The Captain mocked, pink on his cheeks and his lip curling.

Theron frowned. “Not that, I'm more than aware how _that_ works.”

Interesting thoughts though, Theron mused.

The Wrath was definitely attractive, and the Captain, while not necessarily Theron's type, wasn’t half bad either.

Captain Cheekbones and Darth Jawline made for an attractive couple.

“I didn’t think Sith dated outside their own social class.” He mused, and Quinn looked uncomfortable.

“They don’t. Not often, anyway. Darth Venator and myself are... strange, in that regard.”

Strange was _right_.

“How long have you been together?” he asked, fascinated despite himself.

“Three years.” Came the flat response, “He asked me to marry him six months, eight days ago.”

Okay, that was specific. Apparently, Quinn had a hell of a memory. He was like a droid in a person suit.

“How did you guys come about, then?” he asked, and Quinn shot him an annoyed look.

“Are these questions _relevant,_ Agent Shan?” he asked snippily.

Theron shrugged.

“Not really, but I am interested.” He admitted. “It’s not like I’m going to get the chance to ask any other Imperials.”

Quinn looked at him for a few moments, and Theron got the feeling he was being assessed. It was an uncomfortable experience.

“I serve on his ship.” Quinn said suddenly. “He took an interest in me and I in him.” He glanced away, and Theron felt like he wasn’t getting the whole story. “We became lovers, and eventually he asked me to marry him. I accepted.”

“Wow,” Theron drawled, “You make it sound so romantic.”

Quinn looked stiff and awkward, and Theron couldn’t reconcile him with someone in a relationship with the Wrath, of all people.

“This may come as a surprise to you,” The officer muttered, “But I am not the romantic sort. Nor am I comfortable sharing details of my life with Republic spies.”

Theron shrugged; he would give him that one.

“Fair enough.” He allowed. “You can’t blame me for being curious, though. The Wrath is… not what I expected.”

Quinn nodded, accepting this.

“Yes, he is not your typical Sith.” He admitted. “Neither is Lord Beniko.”

He seemed to be on the cusp of saying more, but he kept quiet. Theron was beginning to find him more interesting than he had originally thought he would.

“You’re not a typical Imperial, either.” Theron observed, and Quinn’s shape gaze was on him again. There was something flaying about that look, like the Captain had a way of pinning you in place with his expression. Theron imagined it worked very well on soldiers under his command.

“That’s not something I hear often.” Quinn murmured, “But I suppose that’s true in some respects.”

Again, he seemed unlikely to say more. He wasn’t the worst person Theron had tried to finagle information out of, but he was a tough nut to crack.

Theron took a drink of his caf. Perfectly made, as usual. At least Quinn made decent caf, which almost made up for his less than stellar conversation skills.

“He likes you, you know.”

Quinn’s voice shook Theron into the real world. He blinked.

“Huh?” he said intelligently, and Quinn rolled his eyes.

“Darth Venator, he likes you.” He said, going back to report and pretending that he wasn’t really interested.

Theron was baffled. So, the Darth _had_ been quite nice to him, which was weird. Theron had just assumed the man was a flirt.

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Was Quinn jealous? He didn’t seem to be, but Theron knew very well that jealously took many forms.

The officer finished his drink and set the empty mug down on a coaster, careful not to mark the table. The handle was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table.

“He respects you as much as he does Lana, which is a lot.” Quinn continued. “He’s the emotional sort, but he trusts you. You should be proud.”

Theron wasn’t sure ‘proud’ was the word he would use.

The man stood up, and Theron couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on his long legs. Why were Imperial officers uniforms so… figure hugging?

Ugh, he needed to get laid.

“Darth Venator trusts you, but I do not.” He said flatly, fixing Theron with a beady blue stare.

Theron felt his shoulders tense.

“Well, good for you.” He bit out, playing at being offended. “What a good guard dog you are. I’m not gonna hurt him.” He scoffed. “Like I _could_.”

Quinn just stared at him, and the effect was off putting.

Theron didn’t feel like he was dealing with some grunt of an officer. This felt like he was playing cat and mouse with another spy, which was strange.

“No, I don’t think you will.” The officer agreed, and it didn’t sound like it was because he trusted Theron not to.

Quinn tilted his head.

“I’m always watching, Shan.” He said simply and gathered his things. As he did so, Theron saw a glint of something out of place as he bent to pick up his holopad. A knife strapped to his forearm.

Theron felt something twist his gut. Now he knew what to look for, he could see what he thought were other hidden blades.

Another on his other forearm, one at the small of his back, under his heavy gunbelt. One strapped to his leg, in his boot. There were probably more that he couldn’t spot.

“You’re _definitely_ not a normal Imperial.” Theron said shrewdly, and Quinn shrugged, managing to make even that action seem poised and stiff.

“I’m whatever I need to be.” He said simply and headed for the door. “I respect you, Agent Shan. You may not think so, but I do.”

He paused, and Theron watched him carefully.

“I apologise for my… inelegance in making my point. I simply wanted you to know where I stand.” He said, and he sounded sincere.

Theron nodded.

“I can understand that.” He allowed; tone carefully neutral. “But I have no designs to bring harm to the Wrath. I’m here because I want to be, so I can help Lana stop this.”

Quinn considered for a moment, before something like a smile flickered across his pale face.

“Goodnight, Agent Shan.”

Theron watched him go and slumped in his chair.

Dubiously, he eyed his empty mug of caf. It had _tasted_ fine.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

Here he was, thinking he only had to worry about the kriffing _Sith_.

* * *

He watched them more closely from then on and saw the affection that he might once have written off as an overly attached officer with a crush, and a playboy Sith toying with the officer’s feelings.

Their hands touched sometimes, and they were slow to pull away. They looked at each other with warmth that Theron was fascinated by.

Foolishly, he had assumed that any relationships that were one-part Sith were the unhealthy kind, but the Captain and the Wrath seemed to act strangely normal, as far as couples went.

Theron watched them on the cameras sometimes, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

They were much more affectionate when they thought they were alone.

The Wrath was very tactile, and the officer seemed fine with indulging him. Quinn smiled more, and Theron marvelled at how it took years off his face.

The Mirialan looked at him like he’d personally hung every star in the sky, and it was hard to reconcile this smitten man with the monster who devastated armies.

He watched with a lump in his throat as the Wrath wrapped his arms around the Captain from behind, grinning when the man said something snarky over his shoulder as he tried to keep ordering his reports.

The Captain leaned into the broadness of the man behind him, and his smile was soft. There was no sound, but Theron caught the words ‘I love you’ anyway, watching how the Captain said the words.

He looked away and turned off the monitor.

He felt wrong for watching. He hadn’t done it to be creepy or weird, but to learn more about the two people he was fascinated by.

Still.

He really couldn’t blame Quinn for threatening him.

He respected him, even.

The Wrath was a damned flirt and Theron couldn’t say he was unaffected. It had been tempting, for a moment.

More than a moment, if he was telling the truth.

Sighing, he arched his back and head something pop.

He needed to sleep.

Yawning, he headed for bed, something heavy sitting in his belly and silent ‘I love you’s playing in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Theron. I'll leave it up to you to decide exactly what he's pining over.


	46. My secret collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentimental or not, some things deserved to be remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT. BADLY WRITTEN SMUT AHEAD.
> 
> ALSO, FLUFF.

Malavai Quinn was not a sentimental man.

He did not have much in the way of material possessions, and even less of those could be considered keepsakes.

His wedding ring, his most precious possession, never left his finger if he could help it.

There was a small collection of saved notes covered with Ven'fir's looping, expressive handwriting, the holo from Tattooine, and a cracked shell from a week away at the beach that had ended up interrupted by padawans, of all things.

Really, that was _it._

Those things had only survived because they had been on the Fury when it crashed and been subsequently recovered by Theron Shan.

His most precious collection of things were memories, and Malavai did not _forget things_.

One of the perks of being genetically engineered, he supposed. He had been tailored, and he almost wanted to thank his mother for choosing the ‘enhanced memory' option.

Contrary to popular belief (he was looking at _you_ , Vette), he liked trying new things and learning.

Each new experience was to be savoured and used to better oneself, he believed.

He liked trying out new foods, and had let Vette cook for him once.

That experience had not been a good one, but he didn’t mind. Now he knew he didn’t like Ivirup-grub stir-fry, after all.

Ven’fir had looked comically appalled as he had tried it, his expression one of deep concern and mild horror.

(Malavai firmly believed that someone who, if he was able, would live off oro-bird nuggets and protein shakes was _not_ allowed to have an opinion on his food choices)

Vette had actually looked impressed that he had even managed a rubbery mouthful.

In return, he taught her several Imperial recipes that she promptly added way too much spice to, to suit her tastes. Twi’lek's really could eat anything, he realised.

Everything except Ven’fir’s awful attempts at cooking, that is. The man wasn’t terrible due to lack of skill, but rather a lack of reading the recipe and noticing that three pinches was _not_ the same as three tablespoons.

That was another new experience; living and working with aliens.

Quinn wasn’t particular hateful towards non-humans, he was entirely too efficient for that, but he also had never taken much time to really understand them either. He had never _met_ one before Ven’fir. All he knew was that they seemed more likely to be seen in shackles.

Slavery was common in the Empire after all, as much a part of the culture as leather gloves and paperwork.

Never had the differences been so obvious as when he was in close contact with Ven’fir.

Even now, enjoying their evening meal in the cantina on Odessen with his husband, he liked cataloguing their differences.

Obviously, the mirialan was _green_.

His skin felt the same as anyone else, although he was incapable of growing a decent beard. That was more a Ven’fir kind of thing than anything to do with the species as a whole, and it was funny to watch him complain.

Malavai, who could start his shift clean shaven and end it with five o’clock shadow, felt like Ven’fir probably got the better deal.

In stature he seemed the same as any human, although he seemed to weigh less than he probably should. It was an odd thing to notice, but for a man Ven’fir’s size, Malavai should not have been able to tussle with him as easily as he did.

Of course, the Sith was holding back on the kind of strength that could snap bones and break necks, which Malavai appreciated.

When he had first joined the ship, he had done research on Ven’fir’s species and what he could expect.

In reality, he was very similar to a human in his physicality, although potentially predisposed to more arid climates, considering Mirial was a desert planet.

No wonder he had thrived on Korriban, while others were tipping sand out of their boots.

He had described Dromund Kaas as ‘muggy' to Malavai, who hadn’t really understood what the issue was.

He was a native of the jungle planet after all, and didn’t notice the humidity or heavy rainfall.

Hm. No wonder Malavai had hated Hoth.

Still, he was fascinating to Malavai. He liked running his fingers through those dark curls, feeling how the texture was different from his own. It was thicker and more coarse than he had expected, and it felt strange on his skin.

His eyes were obviously not his natural colour, but Malavai couldn’t imagine him without the burnished amber of the Dark Side.

When they had first met, his eyes had been a lighter, wilder sulphur yellow, but had darkened over time to molten gold, ringed in orange around where his limbic circle should have been. The effect was intense and exotic, and Malavai thought Ven’fir’s eyes were _beautiful._

The Sith himself was vain and showoffish, but strangely irreverent about compliments. Malavai often thought that Ven’fir assumed people didn’t really mean them, and were only sucking up to him. He seemed to get them too often to have them be any more than shallow.

Malavai had told him his eyes were beautiful once, and it was one of the very few times Malavai had ever seen him blush. He had mentally catalogued how his cheeks turned a cute shade of brown as he did so.

Those double canine teeth that fascinated so many were probably the most radical difference between them, save for some dietary differences and some minor organ variations.

The journal he had read all this in had been _fascinating_.

Ven’fir liked to bite, and Malavai didn’t know if that was his instincts telling him to use those teeth, or just because it turned him on.

It might have been both.

Either way, Malavai had had to get quite used to seeing his skin littered with bites and scratches, showing up a stark red on his pale flesh. The ones on his neck were at least _expected,_ but it would be difficult to have to explain the ones Ven’fir left in... other places.

He was less inclined to use his teeth, but there was something to be said for seeing the Sith walk around with marks on him that Malavai had put there.

Also, it made Pierce look like he was about to be sick when he saw them.

And people said Malavai had no sense of humour.

True to form, Ven’fir was eating the same thing he had eaten for two weeks, and Malavai boggled at how he didn’t seem inclined to switch any time soon.

Unbelievable.

They were both drinking, as they had a day off tomorrow.

Malavai wasn’t a heavy drinker, but most soldiers could put away a few before they got sloshed.

He was feeling pleasantly buzzed, and he knew Ven’fir was also feeling the drinks he had consumed.

He was talking about something, telling some anecdote that Malavai was only half listening to, because he was so distracted by the affection blooming in his belly, suffusing every part of him with pleasant, comfortable warmth.

He watched him, letting his eyes linger over familiar expressions.

Ven’fir was still so sharp in his features, the stark tattoos making his face look even more hawkish than even his strong jaw and aquiline nose. His eyes had lines around the edges now, and Malavai liked how they softened his face just a little bit.

His smile was as bright and handsome as ever.

He talked with his hands, movements large and expressive. His cybernetics were upgraded and smooth, Zakuulan technology shamelessly incorporated into the design of his arm to make the movement more fluid. He had forgone mechanical strength and power for precision and appearance. Malavai would have found it odd to have two warm hands on him now, after all this time. The arm was matte black and a near replica of his biological one, black nanocarbon forming pleasing lines.

Malavai was _sure_ his voice sounded deeper than it had done when they had first met all those years ago, something giving it a faint burr that contrasted pleasantly with the clip in his pronunciation. Ven’fir said it was probably the carbonite poisoning doing a number on his vocal chords.

Malavai loved him so much that sometimes it hurt.

Ven’fir blinked at him, bemused.

“What?” he asked, smile growing. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

Malavai, tipsy on decent beer and affection, grinned at him, small and a little sly.

Under the table, he moved a leg so their knees touched.

“Just admiring you.” He murmured, feeling oddly playful.

Ven’fir laughed lowly, the sound of the other patrons and the jangling music from the jukebox almost swallowing the noise.

“Well, who am I stop you?” he teased. “I’m a lot to take in, I know.”

“Oh, I think I did quite well last night.” Malavai shot back, enjoying himself.

He wasn’t good at banter unless he meant it to hurt, but Ven’fir was different. The Sith always knew when he was just prodding him, not meaning to cause offense.

Ven’fir looked delighted with his flirting.

“I can’t deny that,” he allowed, “You're really something.”

He sounded like he meant it; all awed and smitten.

Malavai felt himself blush, and cursed his pale skin.

Compliments always seemed to get him.

They had fun flirting over another beer, becoming increasingly more direct and ridiculous.

Ven’fir won any contest of ridiculousness, of course.

By the end, Malavai could feel the heat on his cheeks from the alcohol and fun, and he was feeling giddy with affection and playfulness.

Ven’fir seemed to be loving it, and Malavai liked seeing him so happy.

Their knees stayed touching, and Ven’fir reached over and took his hand at one point, running the pad of his thumb over Malavai’s skin.

His hand was warm and rough, a sign of a life lived with a weapon drawn. They left, the empty beer bottles on the table the only sign they had ever been there.

Malavai felt a little odd as they walked back, both buzzing and unable to stop the prickle of excitement when their hands brushed.

It felt like he was sneaking off to do something wrong, like he needed to pretend he was innocent.

But he didn’t need to sneak nor pretend.

Everyone knew he was married to the man at his side, so what was wrong with enjoying a meal with him before heading back to their quarters?

No one needed to know that Malavai intended on ravishing the man the moment their door closed.

It was a pleasant, freeing feeling.

People saluted Ven’fir as they passed, and some nodded respectfully to Malavai. Being somewhat of a public figure was very odd, but not as bad as he had feared. It probably helped that he was still deeply private, and that Ven’fir was such a larger-than-life figure, he quite eclipsed Malavai.

He smiled as they got into the lift, thankfully free of anyone else.

Malavai, knowing exactly where the cameras were located, estimated their field of vision and, when he had positioned himself, slipped an arm around Ven’fir’s waist.

The Sith looked pleased and did the same, leaning into Malavai's body.

Malavai, feeling giddy, dropped his hand and felt the Sith jump.

Ven’fir sent an accusing look his way, amused.

Malavai just looked ahead, pretending nothing was happening. His mouth twitched.

By the time the elevator reached their level, crawling down inch by inch, Ven’fir was squirming and trying not to snap and jump Malavai then and there.

Malavai was having _fun._

Of course, most people would consider teasing his husband and being a little flirty as being quite tame, but Malavai had never been accused of being overly burdened with a sense of _joviality._

He was quite tipsy, and he knew that was the only reason he was feeling so playful.

They made it to the quarters that felt like _theirs_ and Malavai took his sweet time opening the door, pretending he wasn’t too interested in the Sith who was practically bouncing with unrestrained energy.

The moment the door closed, Malavai had Ven’fir pressed against it, kissing him like he had been needing to all day.

The kiss was passionate and heated, and hands plucked at clothes with no regard for propriety.

Ven’fir had been ready to take control and jump Malavai for teasing him, but the human wanted to have him gasping.

He ran his hands over his clothed body, fingertips dipping under the hem of his shirt and trailing scorching touches over the plane of the Sith's stomach.

Ven’fir had one hand cupping Malavai's jaw, keeping him close enough to lay kisses on. The other hand settled on the human's waist, and the heat from his organic hand bloomed over Malavai's skin.

They parted for air, grinning at eachother and feeling as giddy as newlyweds. The Sith looked wicked as he moved his hands to rest firmly on his lovers behind.

“What's the occasion?” he asked breathily, golden eyes bright.

Malavai shifted his hips and pressed closer, his grin widening when he heard Ven’fir groan.

“Nothing,” he admitted. “I just really want you.”

Malavai _wanted_ to get his hand down those indecently tight pants.

Ven’fir gave a low, delighted laugh, and kissed him again.

It was fierce and hot, and his mouth felt like it burned.

He kissed back, affection blooming from persistent warmth to all-encompassing heat. It was like sliding into a hot bath, all pleasure and comfort.

Ven’fir was _comfortable_.

Malavai knew a lot of people hated ‘comfortable'. He didn’t understand those people.

In between kisses and nibbles (and not a few bites), Malavai managed to get Ven’fir's shirt off.

No matter how many times he saw him, Malavai would always run his eyes over his lover like it was a privilege.

He was _gorgeous._

He was broader than Malavai was, his shoulders giving him a physical presence that few could match. He had the body of a man who religiously took care of himself, both for the practical and the aesthetic.

Ven’fir knew full well how good he looked, and Malavai spotted him grinning to himself as Malavai started laying kisses and nibbles to his collarbone.

His tattoos enhanced his musculature, sweeping black lines stark and clean against rich green skin.

Malavai wanted to run his tongue along them.

Maybe later.

Ven’fir’s questing fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and he felt his body react, sending tingles over the surface of his skin.

He must look a mess now, with his shirt untucked and half his buttons undone, his hair in disarray where Ven’fir had run his fingers through it.

His skin was tempting, and Malavai resolved to leave a mark on him at some point during the night.

For now, though; _thighs._

Malavai dropped to his knees, looking up at his lover who was biting his lip as though Malavai was the hottest thing he'd ever seen. He could feel where his shirt had slipped off one shoulder.

Teasing the Sith as he grabbed at the hem of his pants, Malavai tried to calm the ridiculous giddy feeling inside him.

He felt good like this. Powerful. Filthy. _Wonderful._

With Ven’fir's pants firmly around his ankles, Malavai had free reign to press a kiss to one firm thigh and sink his teeth into the flesh, earning him a breathy groan from the Sith.

He lavished attention everywhere but where the Sith wanted, teasing. Eventually though, he found himself unwilling to forestall the main event.

Hands wound in his hair, and the tingle in his scalp chased down his spine as he evened his breathing so as not to choke.

Malavai had always been good at this.

He enjoyed it, too.

Ven’fir cursed and held on for dear life.

Malavai closed his eyes and concentrated, heat spreading over his skin.

Thoughts came and went without being actualised, and his only focus was to keep doing what he was doing, to keep drawing more sounds out from his lover.

It was an odd headspace, one that felt wholly unique. He wasn’t used to having singular purpose, and his mind was hard to quiet when he was predisposed to following several lines of thought at once.

It was relaxing, in a way.

No calculations, no preconstructions, no tangents and no _worries_.

He was where he wanted to be, and all he had to do what keep doing this single task that he enjoyed, that made him feel powerful and sexy.

He wanted Ven’fir shaking.

He wanted him begging and gasping.

Malavai opened his eyes and looked up through his lashes.

He felt hands tighten in his hair as Ven’fir grunted out a curse, biting his lip.

He moaned, muffled and unrestrained.

Ven’fir looked _wrecked_ , and that was just how Malavai wanted him.

He kept his breathing rhythmic, keeping his hands on the Sith's hips to as to keep him steady. He didn’t mind it when his lover used his mouth like that, but it wasn’t what he was interested in today.

When his jaw was beginning to ache and his throat felt sore, he pulled away and panted, leaving Ven’fir to come back to his senses in a jumble of feeling as he caught his breath.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and heard his pulse pounding in his ears.

He swallowed and felt his throat twinge, but he aimed a slightly unsteady grin up at his partner, who was looking dazed.

“Bed?” he rasped, not up for too much talking.

He laughed as Ven’fir hauled him up for a messy, filthy kiss.

He let himself melt into it, relishing the heat that came off the Sith.

He gave Ven’fir a push, and the man obligingly moved.

They had to break their kiss to get to the bed, and it took them some time to actually _get_ there, considering they were undressing each other on the way.

Ven’fir was naked after three paces, his shirt already on the floor in a heap by the door and his pants were half off by the time Malavai had finished using his mouth on him.

Ven’fir seemed intent on getting Malavai's pants off, grabbing at his ass like he was a man possessed.

Malavai couldn’t help but laugh as Ven’fir all but threw him on the bed, immediately pressing him into the mattress with his body and kissing him soundly.

Feeling like a tease, Malavai ground up on him, and grinned into the kiss as he felt the rumble of a groan.

They were completely wrapped up in each other, desperate and hazy.

This was not going to be gentle, romantic lovemaking.

This was going to be rough, and it was going to be _hard._

Malavai shivered, eager.

He _wanted._

Ven’fir seemed inclined to pay him back for his teasing by moving him on his hands and knees, and immediately lavishing attention on his behind.

He felt the Sith bite at firm flesh, and he shivered.

Ven’fir was entirely unashamed, while Malavai had almost kicked him the first time he'd ever done it, having not expected it.

They had danced this dance before.

Ven’fir would work him with his tongue until Malavai was half begging for it, before the Sith would grip him by the hips and screw him hard enough to have his eyes rolling back in his head and to leave his legs trembling.

With a breathy sigh, Malavai relaxed into it, his skin feeling hot and tingly, something pleasant and affectionate curling in his belly.

* * *

Ven’fir was the sentimental sort.

Many wouldn’t believe it, that the Wrath was the kind of man who kept keepsakes and got attached to odd things, but he was.

He had holos of many moments in his life, and he kept a little box of keepsakes that, should anyone look into, would find full of seemingly random objects.

A pretty stone or two, a several tiny bottles of sand in varying colours, some carefully kept skeleton leaves, an actual flimsi ticket stub, an old signet ring and a woven red cord that looked like it had been cut off something.

There was more, but he couldn’t always remember what inspired him to keep some of the objects.

Still, he was often struck by emotion or feeling, with the need to remember this moment for whatever reason.

He woke slowly, coming out of his deep sleep gradually. Everything was warm and soft.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the grittiness, rubbing at them to be rid of the feeling.

He brushed curls from his face, feeling his limbs react sluggishly to his commands for them to move.

He felt pleasantly used, with that bone deep weariness that came from a long rest after frenetic activity.

He was sore too, but that had softened into a pleasant ache. He grinned to himself, stretching under the sheets and curling his toes.

Last night had been _amazing._

He heard the sounds of the fresher, and realised Malavai was in the shower.

He sighed happily, spreading his limbs onto the cooler parts of the bed and relishing the change in temperature.

Moments like this stuck in his memory, like he needed to put them under lock and key in case they flew away. If he could capture them and put them in his box, he would.

He dozed off again, unable to stay conscious in the wake of such comfort. The rhythmic noise of the water pounding down the tiles in the other room was soothing, and before he knew it, he was opening his eyes again to the sound of tapping on a screen.

He yawned and turned his head, and his eyes landed on Malavai next to him.

His mouth went dry, and he swallowed painfully.

Malavai was clearly just out of the fresher, and he was wearing nothing but one of Ven’fir’s shirts and a pair of underwear.

It was far too big for him, hanging down to his thighs as he tapped away on his holopad, his back propped up on the headboard.

Long legs showed from under the fabric, and his dark hair was damp and standing in soft spikes. His skin was flushed pink from the heat of his shower, and he looked relaxed and content.

Ven’fir couldn’t find the words to describe how he felt right then, but affection crashed over him like a wave.

“Morning,” he greeted, his voice hoarse from sleep.

Malavai glanced down at him and his expression cleared into a soft smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Hello,” he murmured, his own voice sounding pleasantly _wrecked_.

Ven’fir had the sudden memory of Malavai on his knees with his mouth full and his throat relaxed, moaning like he was the one who was getting the attention. Another one, of Malavai half sobbing as Ven’fir kept his head up and his back arched with a hand wound in hair as he _ruined_ him.

Ven’fir licked his lips, eyes drifting down to how the shirt sat on his lovers’ body.

He had seen Malavai in most states of dress by now, from completely naked to in his dress uniform to fatigues and body armour to pyjamas.

Seeing him wearing only one of Ven’fir’s shirts was something to save to the secret collection of memories in his head.

“You look good in that,” he pointed out, and Malavai went pink.

“Oh, I- Uh, my clothes are in the wash or on the floor.” He admitted, awkward.

Leave it to Malavai to be funny about wearing floor-clothes.

Ven’fir couldn’t help himself, and shuffled closer, smiling. Slowly, he ran his fingertips over the exposed flesh of his lover’s thigh.

“Mmm,” he hummed, “You look _edible.”_

Malavai, pleased and flattered, put the holopad to one side.

“Oh?” he promoted. “I didn’t mean to, but if you like me wearing your shirt...” he trailed off, teasing. “Maybe I should keep it on?”

Ven’fir chuckled, moving his hand to touch behind his lovers’ knee, and to keep on moving. He left gooseflesh in his wake.

“I'd like that.” he murmured, shifting closer still. “I want you to keep it on while we fuck.”

Malavai raised an eyebrow, but Ven’fir could tell he was interested.

“Was last night not enough for you?” he asked, blue eyes amused.

“Last night was amazing,” Ven’fir said frankly. “So much so that I don’t think I can go without a repeat performance.”

Malavai shook his head, amused. He shifted a little before moving his leg over to straddle the Sith, only the thin layer of the sheets between them.

Ven’fir's hands automatically went to sit at Malavai's waist, while the human looked down at him with a sly smile.

“You want to have me like this?” He asked, moving his hips in a way that made Ven’fir’s thoughts blank for a second.

Brain rebooting, he ran his hands up and down Malavai's sides, feeling the heat from his skin seep through the thin material of his shirt.

“I’d have you any way,” he admitted, smitten.

Malavai just smiled, his cheeks pink, and moved his hips again.

Ven’fir groaned, letting his head fall back and granting Malavai access to his throat, which the human began lavishing attention on.

He was already covered in marks, what was a few more?

Malavai looked like he had been in a fight with some kind of wild animal with the amount of bites and scratches that decorated his pale skin.

“Oh,” he marvelled, closing his eyes and losing himself to the feeling of Malavai's warm weight on him and his mouth on his collarbone. “The _things_ I'd let you do to me.”

He felt Malavai smile into the crook his of his neck, and resolved to have the human moaning by the time he was done with him.

He wanted Malavai any way he could get him, but the idea of watching as his husband took control and bounced in his lap was a tempting one.

So was having him on his back, propped up by pillow with those legs around Ven’fir’s waist while Ven’fir watched him fall apart.

 Mmmm, delicious thoughts.

Who said they couldn’t do both?

He grinned, and committed this moment to memory, unaware that his husband was doing the same.

Sentimental or not, some things deserved to be remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was either this, or one about Ven'fir's obsession with his favourite holonovel series. Then I realised that his obsession is not secret AT ALL.
> 
> Also, this get to be cute and smutty at the same time!
> 
> Malavai is quite playful in this, and that's mostly 'cause he's drunk. He needs a bit of help to loosen up, poor guy.


	47. Footsteps in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been fun, darling. I’ll see you soon.

For all that his life revolved around lies, Cipher Nine had never been one to lie to himself.

One did not get high off their own supply, as the saying went.

It was strange, he mused as he hunkered down in his perch, how much and yet how little things had changed.

The life of a Cipher suited him. He was probably one of the very few that _thrived_ on the lifestyle, while others were chewed up and spat back out, mangled and ruined by the work.

_(“Agent?”_

_“Don’t_ touch _me. Just... don’t._ ”)

Morals were for the weak, a construct that only hindered men like him.

( _He didn’t feel anything. He didn’t.)_

It was a skill he was very proud of, and pride was a sin that he was content to indulge.

He was fiercely competitive, and perfection was the goal. He applied that high standard to everything in his life, it seemed.

He trained until his body ached and his muscles screamed at him. He had to be better.

_(His knuckles bled as he stared down at his opponent, whimpering on the mats. He inspected his finger, crooked and out of place, before snapping but back into its socket with a grunt of pain. He met the gaze of his trainer and saw her swallow, clutching her holopad as she struggled to meet his eyes._

_“Again.”)_

He missed a shot in training and practiced so much the instructors gave him his own key to the range.

_(“Unacceptable, cadet.”_

_“I’ll do better, sir.”)_

He kept himself attractive, fully aware of his looks and the effect they had on people.

It would be a shame not to utilize them.

The pull of the exotic wasn’t something to be ignored, so even as an alien he found people tripping over themselves for the chance to share his bed.

(“ _Chiss? I’ve always wondered what creatures like you would feel like. Easy, aren’t you?”)_

He indulged many of them. After all, there was no harm in giving people what they wanted while he got his, was there? He was well versed in a host of more painful and insidious information gathering techniques, and he doubted many of his marks would choose torture over a night in his bed.

(“ _Dose him again, cadet.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“Again. Don’t stop until he gives you what you want.”)_

He refused to be less than skilled at _anything,_ and that dauntless determination to make of himself the best he could be was a point of pride.

Perfection was the standard he held himself to.

The Castellan restraints had neatly swept that from under him.

(“ _There were no survivors, Legate.”_

_“Sir, they're-"_

_“Onomatophobia. Execute them, Legate.”_

_“Yes, sir._ ”)

Everything he had worked for, everything he _was_ had been ripped away from him. It wasn’t simply duty that drove him on, it was a burning need to right a wrong with blood. Duty was a convenient bonus.

How _dare_ they.

(“ _I'll kill them. I’ll kill them all. Every last fucking one_.”)

Cold, brutal and efficient.

Perfection presenting a cracked veneer over the snarling animal backed into a corner.

(“ _Do you know what happens when you cage an animal?_

 _He gets_ vicious _.”)_

Every bullet felt like a savage joy, and every drag of his blade over a throat was one more step in a long road.

(“ _I'll claw my way out of the rubble to hunt you down, do you hear me?_ ”)

Being underestimated worked perfectly for him. Being _normal_ in a galaxy where heroes could bring down battlecruisers on their lonesome, summon storms at a whim and flay minds without a touch, few people could compare.

Give him time to prep, a good vantage point and  enough clips, and he would bet on himself any day of the week.

( _“I’m trained to kill Jedi. You're barely even that._ ”)

Cipher Eight was far more interesting than he had any right to be.

Plucked from obscurity by a Sith that would go on to become a legend, the Major had ridden Darth Venator's coat tails to infamy.

Well, partly.

Cipher Nine saw parallels where he didn’t expect to, and it tugged at him in a way he wasn’t familiar with.

Dedicated.

Ruthless.

Loyal to the Empire, but not without their own agenda.

(“ _They wiped the main data bank, but I downloaded what I could. Use it well, my lords.”_ )

There were only two things you could do with a man like that; fuck him or kill him.

Idly, he mused on doing both. Tempting.

Deft fingers adjusted the scope of his rifle, breathing in the scent of petrichor and ozone.

Stormy jungle planet.

Too much like Dromund Kaas.

Not enough like ~~home~~ Csilla.

(“ _Yeah, you’re blue. But you’ve still got the accent_.”)

Sometimes, the scars ached in this kind of weather.

He knew it had been the only way, but part of him bristled at being asked to play bait, even if he knew how.

(“ _Keep it together, cadet. If we can break you, so can the enemy. Torture is the least of your worries if you betray the Empire. Try not to scream this time. Now, again.”)_

The Major had spent time in enemy hands. Apparently, he hadn’t broken, and Cipher Nine doubted that he had been trained to resist torture.

Vaguely, he wondered if he could break him if given the chance. It would be an interesting challenge, at the very least.

(“ _Improvised interrogations are my speciality.”_ )

He pushed the thought from his mind. It wasn’t useful.

He watched through the scope as the Major picked up his holopad, and a thrill of excitement buzzed to his fingertips.

Three hours ago, his monitoring software intercepted a message from Imperial command.

It had looked innocuous enough at first glance, just another report about some crap that should have only needed a paragraph but somewhat got spun out for twelve.

He read it first, of course.

So, the Wrath lived.

Cipher Nine felt like he should have been surprised.

Nothing really surprised him anymore. Revelations were dealt with with the same clinical professionalism as everything else, and he wondered when he had grown numb to legends coming back to life.

Still, he mused with a small smile as he watched as the Major pressed a shaking hand to his mouth as he read, he hadn’t felt this _involved_ for a long time.

When one is arguably the most skilled spy and assassin in the known galaxy, most things begin to feel quite dull.

(“ _Empress Acina, a pleasure to meet you. Call me Cipher Nine._ ”)

The Major really shouldn’t have left the flap of his tent open, he thought as he adjusted the scope to zoom in a fraction more.

Cipher Nine had been in that tent enough times to know that it got awfully stuffy with the flap down, after all.

The rest of the squad were oblivious, and he kept an eye on them as they relaxed around the campfire, chatting and checking their fear after a long day.

The slicer was cooking something that didn’t look like standard rations, and the engineer was helping.

The sniper was keeping watch.

The demolitionist was cleaning her guns, and the Captain was patching her up as she did so, treating a nasty graze on one muscular arm.

The Major was breaking not a few feet from them.

How sad.

Cipher Nine sighed as he shifted to get rid of the ache in his spine from laying on the cold ground for so long.

It was such a pity he was supposed to kill them.

Oh, the mission didn’t expressly say he _had_ to, but the outcome was clear.

If Malavai Quinn defected from the Empire to rejoin his lover, kill him and his squad.

No loose ends.

It was such a _waste_.

He watched as the Major calmed himself. It was impressive really, for someone without his kind of training to be able to purge panic and emotion so quickly by clamping down with durasteel will and control.

The Major was still for a moment, like tension on water.

Then, he began to pack.

He was quick and efficient, and Cipher Nine smiled to himself.

Right on the money.

Hmm.

What to do?

The major wouldn’t leave tonight, he surmised. He wouldn’t leave his squad leaderless in the wake of the operation in two days.

He would take off after it, or so he thought.

Cipher Nine yawned and settled in.

* * *

The operation had gone flawlessly.

Malavai could barely calm his shaking hands and racing heart.

Ven’fir was _alive._

His lover, his husband, his _partner._

He tried not to think about it.

As much as he wanted to run to him, to up and leave and kiss him the moment he saw him, he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not on the eve of a mission.

They were taking out a Zakuulan general, who had stopped at a facility hidden in the jungles of some nameless Zakuulan moon.

The mission had been _perfection._

The exit, less so.

He panted as he pulled the pin on a grenade and hurled it down the hallway. He heard the metal casing hit the hard floor and roll for a moment before detonating, the blasts deafening.

An alarm had tripped, and now it seems every skytrooper and guard in Zakuul was on their tail.

They had lost contact with Thamar and Kal, and Montclaire was injured but still fighting. The boom of Fisher's heavy weaponry was still sounding somewhere from inside the maze of corridors.

Grellen was at his side, taking careful shots with his pistol as their hack burned though security. They had been hit in the leg and could barely walk, and needed medical attention soon.

Malavai was a good medic, but under fire and in enemy territory was not the time for surgery. Grellen could move, but they needed to get out and _fast._

They shouldn’t have been able to be separated.

Malavai couldn’t shake the feeling that this had gone too wrong, too quickly.

This felt _purposeful._

His rifle was warm to the touch even through his gloves, the heat sink working overtime to compensate for what it was being asked to handle.

He fired again, the recoil butting against his shoulder.

Everything ached, but it didn’t register.

Adrenaline flooded his system, and he focused his shots as he took advantage of it.

The comm crackled to life.

“Sir, there’s a huge group moving towards the west concourse.” he heard Montclaire grunt as he exerted himself doing something Malavai couldn’t make out. “Looks like more than you want to handle, sir!”

Malavai permitted himself a curse.

“Copy, Montclaire.” He replied, “We're not going anywhere until this door-"

A beep, and the red light on the security door turned green. Grellen made a noise of surprise.

Malavai frowned.

“Belay that, looks like our exit just opened up.” He muttered. “Any word from Thamar or Kal?”

“We found Thamar rigging up some explosives in one of the crossroads, her comm got shorted by an EMP.” Montclaire explained and Malavai almost buckled with relief.

He and Grellen headed for the door, thankful for the sudden lull in Skytroopers. He supported the injured slicer as best he could, and Grellen was putting on a brave face despite the pain.

“No word from Kal?” Malavai asked Montclaire.

A pause.

“None, sir.”

Malavai swallowed hard.

If the sniper had been killed, he wasn’t sure how he would explain it to the man’s wife.

He cleared the thought.

“Copy. Find your exits and regroup at point cresh.” He ordered. “We will meet you there.”

His team sounded off with their assent, but the lack of Kal's cheery voice was glaring.

He and Grellen headed into the maze of the complex, checking their maps as they went.

Grellen worked some slicing magic and sealed the security door as they went through, buying them some time. The young slicer was looking deathly pale.

It was eerily quiet.

Grellen inspected a fallen Skytrooper as they limped past, it's eyes lifeless and dull.

“Looks like someone has already been through here,” the young slicer murmured, their voice wary and pained.

Malavai nodded grimly, holding his rifle tighter.

“Keep your eyes open.” He muttered.

They headed for the exit, and met with no more resistance than the still twitching corpse of a Skytrooper that tried to grab Malavai's ankle as they passed.

Just as they came upon the exit, Malavai's comm crackled.

“--- pinned down- Is anyone close to the west co- backup- help-"

Something icy gripped his heart.

“That's Kal.” He muttered, voice tight.

“The exit is _right here_ , sir.” Grellen stressed. “Find Kal, I can get to the RV on my own and meet up with the squad.”

Malavai looked at them sharply.

“I’m not leaving you alone.” He snapped.

Grellen grunted something as they tested their leg. It shook and almost buckled, but stayed steady.

“See?”

Malavai knew it made sense.

Save one, and let the other die. Or, save the other with a decent chance the other would live.

He raised a hand to his comm.

“Tempest squad, is anyone at the pickup?”

A crackle.

“Copy, sir.” Fisher sounded off, her deep voice weary. “Just got here.”

“Grellen is injured and Kal is pinned down. Escort Grellen from exit six to the pickup. I’ll go in for Kal.”

“Copy. Sit tight, Grellen. Four minutes.”

Malavai pinned the slicer with a look.

“Think you can last four minutes?” he asked, and Grellen shot him a bloody grin.

“Easy.” They managed, wiping blood off their chin.

Malavai reached into his bag and handed two syringes over.

“Use them only if you have to.” He said sternly.

Grellen, serious, nodded.

“Copy, sir.”

Malavai nodded and without any further words, turned and sprinted back inside.

He followed the hissing of his comm and the trail and broken Skytroopers until he heard the crackle of a rifle.

His lungs burning and his legs aching, he ran for the noise.

Skytroopers were gathered in a hallway, firing into a room. It was a good choice point to defend, but also had John way out.

With a grimace, he took cover and pulled out his last grenade.

“If that’s you in there Kal, take cover.” He muttered into his comm, and pulled the pin.

The explosion made his teeth rattle and his head pound, but not enough that he couldn’t pick off the last Skytrooper with his rifle.

Careful, he picked his way over and pressed his back to the wall next to the door.

“Kal?” he called, grip on his rifle steady. “That you?”

“Good to hear your voice, sir!” Came a strained response, and he all but stumbled from the rush of relief.

He headed inside, and spotted the sniper standing up from his cover.

Kal offered him a tired grin, his blue skin smudged with smuts and shining with perspiration.

“Got cornered.” He said simply, shaking from adrenaline.

“I can see that.” Malavai murmured, getting close. “You injured?”

Kal shook his head. “No, but they got my comm unit.” He said ruefully, showing him the ruined piece of plastic that was barely holding together.

“Come on,” Malavai ordered, “The others are at the extraction point. We need to hurry.”

“All of them?”

Malavai frowned at the odd question.

“Yes. Grellen was injured so I came for you alone.”

Kal's expression cleared.

“Gotcha. Sorry sir, I was wondering if they all made it.”

“We're not out yet.” He muttered as Kal headed for the door.

The Chiss suddenly stopped and turned around.

Malavai scowled, annoyance lighting in his belly.

“What are you waiting for? We need to move.”

Kal waved an indolent hand.

“No, we don’t.” He assured. “The Skytroopers won’t be a problem.”

Malavai was confused. He didn’t like the feeling.

“You-"

Kal grinned, and it wasn’t Malavai's trusted sniper standing there any more.

“Sorry darling, but I’ve got some things to say and I needed you alone.”

Several things clicked but not enough. Malavai's mind was working through tar.

“I- _what_?” he managed, an icy feeling spreading from his belly outwards to his fingertips.

The Chiss kept smiling, his hands on the monster of a rifle he preferred to use.

“You’re awfully interesting, Cipher Eight.” He said, crimson eyes boring into Malavai's own.

Malavai swallowed hard. Kal should not have known that. None of his team knew he reported not to Imperial military command, but to Sith Intelligence.

“How-"

“I suppose some reintroductions are in order.” Kal decided, and offered him a little bow without taking his eyes off him, still grinning.

“Pleased to meet you, you may call me Cipher Nine.”

Malavai felt like his feet had been swept from under him.

He was close to Kal, and to find out now that he wasn’t Kal at all was _shattering_.

Had he really been so blind?

“Now,” the Chiss began in a cool tone, “I have unofficial orders to execute you and your team.” He said frankly. “I have chosen not to do so.”

Malavai swallowed hard, feeling untethered and numb.

“Who?” he asked, and his voice sounded thick and rough to his own ears.

The Chiss tilted his head, an enigmatic smile over his face.

“Empress Acina.” He revealed easily. “Should you betray the Empire and run to your lover, I was to erase every last trace of you and your team.”

“So, you knew?”

Kal nodded. “Of course,” he sounded faintly insulted. “I read all your communications.” He said with a smile. “And you only get what I want you to. I don’t block much.” He admitted.

Malavai felt something angry show on his face.

“Sorry darling, but that’s the game.” Kal said with a laugh. “And I’ve been playing it for a lot longer than you.”

Malavai forced himself still.

“You said you chose not to follow orders.” He asked carefully, wary. “Why?”

Kal shrugged elegantly.

His body language was totally different to the perennially cheery Chiss that had a kind streak and a habit of flirting with people who wanted to hurt him.

Malavai, despite his fury and tension, couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I’m loyal to the Empire.” Kal said carefully. “But not all its workings. Killing you would only alienate the Wrath and by extension, the entire Alliance.” He shook his head. “That's foolish. It’s the response of a child throwing her toys out of the pram.” He said with some strange energy in his eyes, a manic sort of glint that spoke of deeply help convictions.

“Sith do love a tantrum, don’t they?” he asked, smiling like a shark.

Malavai nodded carefully.

“So, what will you do?” he asked, “Now you’ve told me.”

Kal smiled.

“Your squad are being picked up by the Alliance as we speak.” He admitted. “I’ve been offering them tips and information on the side, and I let them know of a very talented black ops squad who would be in need of a rescue.” He said with a small, calculating smile.

“Of course, I had to trip the alarms and ruin our exit to get everyone to play their parts, but still.” He shrugged. “No plan ever goes perfectly.”

“You tripped-"

Kal nodded. “Mmhmm, I needed to light a fire under you all, so to speak.”

Malavai snarled at him, furious.

“They could have _died._ ” He snapped; fists balled tight.

Kal looked unimpressed.

“I expected a few of them to, yes. It’s a nice surprise to hear they all lived.” He admitted callously. “I hardly-"

Something snapping, Malavai found himself lurching forward with intent to hurt when he felt the world spin and his back hit the concrete with brutal force. The breath was forced out of him and he felt a heavy weight settle on him.

Kal pinned him, eyes blazing and smile wide. He held a vibroknife to Malavai's throat, and his other hand pinned his dominant hand.

“Naughty,” he purred, dangerous. Malavai's breath came short.

He wasn’t dealing with something he could rush blindly here. This was another animal altogether.

Kal’s weight on him was warm and uncomfortable, and he shifted to see if he could throw him off.

The blade pressed deeper into his throat, and he felt a bloom of pain. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“I don’t want you dead,” the Chiss murmured, “But I will cut your throat if you do that again.”

Malavai just glared up at him.

Kal laughed and it was a humourless, awful sound.

“I can see why Venator liked you,” he whispered, moving close. His skin was warm and his breath tickled the hairs on his neck.

“You've got _fire._ ”

He pulled back and looked Malavai up and down with a mean looking smirk.

"I guess they don't make them like they used to."

It was hard to see that cruel, cold expression on a friend’s face.

Except... that friend had never existed at all.

“Your team has been extracted, and you’ll find a shuttle waiting for you at point dorn.” The agent explained, voice low. "I advise that you leave for Odessen as soon as you can. The Empire will find out you’re not dead eventually, but by then you’ll be with the Alliance.” He assured. “Remember that you can’t trust Acina.”

“And I can trust you?” Malavai snarled at him, mocking.

Kal chuckled.

“Oh no, I don’t advise trusting me at all.” He crooned, getting close again.

He made Malavai's skin prickle, and the human realised that he wasn’t breathing. His lunged burned and he wanted to struggle so much it hurt. His head felt cloudy and his body felt like it was made of lead.

“But right now, I’m the only hope you have of seeing your husband again.”

Kal grinned and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. His skin crawled.

He withdrew his blade and got off Malavai, his movements feline and fluid.

He had always been attractive, but now he seemed like he _fit._

The different was as stark as a tiger in a zoo to one stalking you in the wild.

One was lovely, the other was _breathtaking_.

As soon as he was free, Malavai tried to sit up.

His body refused to obey. Panicking, he tried to thrash and found he couldn’t.

His whole body felt like lead, and it refused to move as commanded.

He could barely speak.

Kal paused at the door.

“Sorry about that,” he said, not sorry at all. “The poison will wear off in two minutes, maybe three. After all, I don't want you catching up to me, do I?”

The knife. He could still feel the blood drying on his neck.

Malavai wanted to kill him. He wanted to ring that blue neck until the Chiss begged. He wanted to _carve_ that grin from his face.

Cipher Nine smiled, and there was nothing behind his eyes.

“It’s been fun, darling. I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cipher Nine is a bad, bad man.


	48. The first cut is the deepest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ven’fir had not expected it, even though he probably should have.

At first, he didn’t know what had happened.

He couldn’t see. Everything was black, and his eyes felt gritty and painful.

His head rang like he was inside a bell, an all encompassing whine that drilled into his skull and bored into his ears. His head pounded and it hurt more than he had words for.

His head swam and he registered a white hot pain, various point of his body screaming at him. His legs felt like they were on fire with agony, his chest felt constricted and tight. Every inch of his body hurt, and it was a struggle to stay conscious.

Dimly, he realised that something must have happened.

A loud noise, the feeling of falling, and then pain and blackness.

He coughed, and suddenly his mouth was filled with something that _wasn’t_ _air_ and it was sticking to his throat and he couldn’t stop coughing-

Oh gods, he _couldn’t breathe._

_Panic._

He struggled and tried to spit it out but more just kept filling his mouth. His lungs burned and his vision swam and he was so scared he couldn’t _think_.

Terror gripped his heart and _squeezed._

He thrashed and pulled and couldn’t stop coughing to breathe, and something agonising shot up his arm and made him scream, which let the last bit of precious air out of his lungs.

Something wet hit his face, and he instinctively sputtered and turned his face away.

“My lord?” came a ragged voice, hoarse and pained. “ _Drink_.”

Unable to think through his terror, he tried to bat the person away but a strong hand gripped his chin and held him fast. Water splashed into his mouth and he swallowed, spluttering.

The water opened up his throat, half glued shut with dust.

He gasped and hacked out a wet cough, his vision swimming and dusty air filling his lungs.

He _hurt._

“Breathe, my lord. Deep and steady.”

He knew that voice. Malavai.

“Quinn?” He rasped, and coughed again.

A hand, slick with something warm, touched his neck.

“I’m here, my lord.”

“I- I can’t see.”

A pause.

“I’m going to pour water on your face, my lord. Please, keep still.”

He swallowed and let Quinn do as he wished. He felt fragile and helpless like this and he hated the feeling.

He hurt.

“Quinn?” he asked, and his voice sounded tiny. “What happened?”

Without an answer, water splashed onto his eyes and he instinctively tried to blink as the dust was washed away.

He managed to open his eyes, and immediately regretted it.

Quinn looked _terrible_.

He was covered in dust and debris, white as a chalk save for the crimson blood running from a deep gash at his hairline.

He moved stiffly and his eyes were red and streaming from the dust. He looked shaken and tense.

“Quinn?” he asked, and the officer’s eyes snapped to him.

“I’m here.” The man assured immediately, voice hoarse and pained. “I’m here, my lord. We... we need to get you out from under there.”

Oh.

The rocks.

The ones on him.

Quinn began pulling them off him, a manic kind of energy lending him speed. His gloves were covered with dust and torn, but he kept going. Some of the rubble was very heavy, and Ven’fir heard the sounds of exertion as he applied strength to move them. Sometimes, Ven’fir heard him gasp in pain, and wondered if the Captain had also been injured.

He tore at rubble and debris, and Ven’fir saw the closest thing to fear he had seen on his face.

“Quinn?” he managed, frightened. “It hurts to breathe.”

Quinn paused for a second, concerned.

“I... alright.” He swallowed, “Small breaths my lord, keep them steady. I need to get these rocks off you.”

Ven’fir did as he was told, even though his vision shook with pain and he barely had the strength to keep his eyes open.

It seemed to take an age for Quinn to make progress, and Ven’fir could see how much it hurt him. He favoured one side and winced when he lifted the stones, but he didn’t slow down. He had patched himself up briefly with the contents of his medical pack, and he kept feeding Ven’fir water in tiny sips.

Quinn was panting with effort, his face red under the dust and the cut on his head steadily leaking blood down his cheek as be strained.

He fell back, limbs shaking.

 Ven’fir could barely see straight.

The officer hauled himself closer, his breaths coming in deep, trembling lungful’s.

“I can’t move it.” He whispered. “I... your arm. It’s trapped under the rock.”

Ven’fir tried to keep himself calm. Rising panic was making his chest hurt again.

“Can you use the Force?” Quinn asked, desperate. “We have to get you out.”

Ven’fir tried to steady his erratic breathing enough to answer.

He was _scared._

“I can try.” He whispered, words slurring and painful. Quinn looked concerned.

“My lord?”

Ven’fir swallowed, and it was difficult.

“I can’t- I can’t see right.” He mumbled. “And it _hurts._ ”

“I know, my lord. I... I know. Please, you need to try.” He urged, blue eyes wide and bloodshot from where he had rubbed at them.

Ven’fir tried to raise one bloody, ruined arm to help him focus, but even that was a gargantuan effort.

He could barely see, and his head swam as every movement send a fresh wave of white hot agony through every mangled limb.

He tugged at the Force, and he felt a trickle of power come forth, erratic and uncertain without the focus that he was unable to muster.

He tried harder, and he felt Quinn move to help push the massive lump of rock. The officer strained as Ven’fir _demanded_ the Force answer him.

He dug deeper, and he screamed when the rock shifted.

Jolted by the pain that made him almost lose consciousness, he lost his concentration and the rock slipped again, a sickening crunch reaching his ears. This time he _did_ black out.

He came to what must have been a few seconds or minutes later, and he couldn’t form a coherent thought through the pain.

His screams echoed off the walls of the cave and made him feel like a hundred people were screaming with him.

He felt wetness on his cheeks and realised that he was crying.

He was dimly aware of Quinn touching his face, and trying to calm him, but he was barely conscious.

“I’m here, my lord.” He stressed, shaken and scared out of his mind himself. “I’m here.”

Ven’fir was aware that he was sobbing, ugly tears running down his cheeks as he tried not to lose consciousness again.

“I can't-" he rasped, and his voice was barely audible even to him. “The Force, it- I _can't.”_

“Alright,” Quinn breathed, seemingly trying to focus himself. “Alright. I can’t leave you here,” he murmured. “Comms are down, and this place is unstable. We need to _leave_."

Ven'fir forced his brain to focus.

It was hard.

Quinn had given him something for the pain, he thought, but it wasn’t strong enough.

“Is it just my arm?” he managed, swallowing painfully. “That's trapped?”

Quinn nodded, the blood on his face making him look half dead.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I managed to get the rest off you but... you’re in bad shape even without considering the arm. Broken leg, I think you’ve got a concussion and your ribs are cracked. That’s only when I can tell from here.”

Leave it to Quinn not to pull any punches, Ven’fir thought.

“Cut it off.”

Silence.

“My lord-"

Ven’fir snarled at him, fury and pain forming a potent mix in his belly. “Get my lightsaber and cut it _off_.”

He was _terrified._

Quinn’s eyes were huge, and he looked shocked.

“Are you sure?” he asked slowly, expression searching.

Ven’fir bit back another cry as he shifted and the pain overwhelmed his vision.

“Yes,” he managed, feeling somewhat hysterical. “It's probably useless anyway, now.”

Quinn swallowed, and Ven’fir watched the bob of his throat as he did so.

“That... that is true.” He admitted. “I can’t say for sure but... You might lose the arm anyway.”

Ven’fir grunted.

“Then _do it_.” He ordered, trying to put some authority in his voice.

Stars, he was frightened. He didn’t want this.

But he didn’t have a choice.

Quinn took a moment to find the ‘saber that was thankfully still clipped to his belt. The other was gone or inaccessible, it being on the side that had taken the most damage.

He turned it in his hands for a second before drawing the long knife from his belt.

For an irrational second, Ven’fir thought that knife was for _him._

It was, but not in the way he had suddenly feared.

The officer held it towards the Sith, expression hard.

“To bite down on.” He said roughly. Ven’fir took it shakily, body screaming at him to stop moving.

With impressively steady hands, the officer pressed the button and the crimson blade sprang forth, and he only jumped a little bit.

The man stared at the blade, the light from it making his features look almost demonic with the blood and dust.

Ven’fir met his eyes.

“Do it.”

Quinn looked tense and horrified, but his hands didn’t shake as he lined up the blade.

“It'll cauterize,” he managed. “And we still need to get out of here. I won’t be able to carry you all the way.”

Ven’fir knew that.

He nodded, and carefully placed the hilt of the blade in his mouth. At least he wouldn’t shatter his teeth.

He bit down, and Quinn nodded gravely to him.

He closed his eyes, but not before crimson light filled his vision.

* * *

Iypri Dentassa was a normal person. He owned a small shop, and had a steady clientele.

His workshop was his safe space, his little bubble of comfort.

He was a normal man, and an average citizen. He was highly skilled and paid well for his work but he was an almost entirely forgettable individual, and he was perfectly content in that.

So, when the knock came, he didn’t think twice about answering it.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted to his visitor.

The man was Imperial military, judging from the uniform, and had probably had better days.

A nasty cut at his hairline was stitched closed, the threads faint but visible.

His posture was so stiff and formal, Iypri almost didn’t notice that one arm was in a sling.

“Dentassa?” the man asked, his voice clipped and cold.

Iypri nodded, curious. Military types were usually hard to read and this one came off as especially so.

“Yes, that’s me.” He admitted. “Can I help you?”

The man nodded.

“Captain Quinn.” He introduced himself quickly, like his identity wasn’t important. “We have a commission for you.”

Iypri smiled, but shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not accepting commissions at the moment, not until I finish my backlog. If you leave me your holofrequency then I’ll get back-"

“No.”

Iypri blinked at being cut off. He opened his mouth to speak but Captain Quinn interrupted.

“I’m afraid we have need of your services _immediately_.” He intoned, and his blue eyes bored into Iypri's own.

“Who is ‘we’, and why can they not wait like everybody else?” he asked, annoyed. He worked with nobles, and he had no time for tantrums or selfishness. He left those traits to the Sith.

Captain Quinn's eyes were ice.

“Lord Polaris.”

Iypri swallowed.

“Oh.”

Captain Quinn gazed at him.

“Quite.” He said primly.

Iypri took a steadying breath.

“I suppose you had better come in.”

He opened his door and let the Captain inside, feeling rather like he was letting a snake into his home.

He led the man to his messy little office, and marvelled at how out of place the prim and proper officer looked in the chaos he called his workspace. Not a hair was out of place on him, silver at his temples giving him years that made Iypri unsure of his age.

He turned to face the Captain, suddenly feeling much older than his fifty odd years.

“You realise that I don’t do combat prosthetics?” he asked, needing to make this clear. “That's not my speciality. I make functional, aesthetic pieces, not things that can break permacrete.”

Quinn nodded.

“I am aware.” He admitted. “Lord Polaris was specific in what he wanted, and I picked you as the best candidate.”

Iypri should probably have been flattered by that.

“I’ve never worked for a Sith before,” he murmured. “They don’t want something as good as what they had. They want more.”

Quinn's eyes were shrewd.

“Lord Polaris is not available tonight.” He said simply. “But you will report to the Kaas City spaceport tomorrow morning. Docking bay four xesh.”

The officer regarded him again, and if this was what a dog of the Sith felt like so close, how would the real thing feel?

“You will be well paid for your services.” He  added, apparently as an afterthought. “I will see you tomorrow, oh nine hundred.”

Iypri could only mutter a reluctant agreement as the man turned and left, leaving Iypri standing in his office, dumbfounded.

_Oh._

* * *

_The Fury_ was an imposing ship.

Iypri supposed that made sense, considering who owned it.

Lord Polaris was a name that seemed to grace the airwaves with increasing regularity these days.

A minor Lord, apprenticed to Darth Baras. He was tagged as an up-and-comer, but not particularly worthy of note.

Iypri had certainly never heard of him before.

In the last few days however, his name has been on all the most important lips.

Traitor.

Exile.

_Disowned._

Darth Baras had gone public with the news of his apprentice attempting to kill him only two days ago, and now here Iypri was, staring up at the hulk of a ship in front of him.

Darth Baras went public with the announcement that his apprentice was now cut off after a murder attempt, and suddenly said apprentice needed a prosthetic of some kind?

Iypri put two and two together and got four.

He swallowed heavily, and signalled the jumpy looking woman at the terminal to let them know he was waiting.

After only a minute or two, he spied a figure heading down the gang way, and recognised it as Captain Quinn.

That man gave him the shivers. He had a very intense look, as though he was looking into your very soul and finding you wanting.

“Thank you for coming,” was the first thing the Captain said to him, looking as stiff as always. He had walked with a bit of a limp as he crossed the bay, and Iypri wondered how he had become so injured.

Perhaps the Sith aboard was responsible.

“It's my pleasure,” he lied, nervous. “Shall we? I don’t want to keep Lord Polaris waiting.”

Quinn eyed him shrewdly.

“Of course,” he acquiesced. “Follow me.”

That limp looked nasty, as did the cut on his face.

The officer was the tall side of average height, but his long legs gave him an advantage over Iypri, who hurried to keep up.

The feeling of foreboding increased tenfold the closer to the ship they got.

Quinn didn’t seem affected, so Iypri wasn’t sure if it was his own nerves or some malevolent Sith power that the officer was immune to.

Quinn keyed in the code and the door opened, and the crimson strip lights gave the airlock a sinister glow.

Thankfully, the rest of the ship was a little less oppressive, although the styling was aggressive and quintessentially Imperial.

An Imperial himself, he was used to it but not like _this._

He couldn’t help but look around, feeling very untethered.

He would be meeting a _Sith._

A Sith that, from all the gossip, was nothing less than a _monster._

He swallowed painfully.

Quinn paused at the door to the medbay.

“My lord is inside.” He said, voice low. “Treat him with respect.” He warned, his eyes boring into Iypri’s own. “He is injured and in pain. You will not find him in a... merciful mood.” He finished, grim.

Iypri swallowed and nodded.

Quinn pressed the pad that opened the door, and Iypri was immediately hit with a wave of apprehension.

He could hear voices inside, and his stomach clenched.

“-tear his fucking throat out and watch him die _screaming_!” Someone roared, and Iypri flinched back, frightened and taken aback by the sudden loud noise.

The voice was rough and carried a clipped Imperial accent, the tone violent and pained.

The air felt heavy and hot, and he felt like there was a roaring in his ears, even though he knew there was no such sound near him.

It reminded him of a firestorm; explosive, wild and uncontrollable. He lost his breath, and he swore he could feel burning heat over his skin.

Quinn’s good hand landed on his shoulder and, heavy and strong, steered him inside.

He wanted to close his eyes.

He wanted to be back home.

He steeled what was left of his nerve and forced his legs to carry him.

The medical bay was a clinical and sparse affair, but he barely had time to take the room in before his attention was drawn to the man that dominated the room with his presence.

He was sitting on the examination table, hunched over and with one hand gripping the edge so hard his knuckles had turned white. He was Mirialan, which should have been stranger than it was.

He was bare to his waist, damp, dark curls falling over his face as he cursed, occasionally grunting in pain as a Twi'lek fussed over him. He was broad shouldered and solid looking, and the cursing coming from him was inventive.

One of the kolto tanks was drained and the door was open, the last traces of the substance clinging to the Sith's green skin.

“My lord?” Quinn cut in smoothly, and Iypri was amazed at his audacity.

The Sith’s head snapped up and Iypri couldn’t contain a small gasp.

His face was contorted into an animalistic snarl, his sharp teeth bared in threat. His eyes burned liquid amber, close to orange in shade, as he glared. Healing cuts had been torn into his face on one side, and the geometric tattoos gave him a sharp air. Iypri followed the lines of his body as half turned towards him, and realised the immediate issue.

One of his arms was _missing._

It was severed almost to his shoulder, leaving only stump behind. The stump was clearly fresh still, considering the amount of kolto gel and bandages that were covering it, as well as the blood.

Other injuries made themselves apparent, in the way one of his legs was in a brace and bandages, and how several more swathes of white covered parts of his chest.

He looked like he should have been dead.

That gaze fixed on him, and Iypri felt the strength leave his body, flowing out like a stream and leaving a void for terror to fill.

He was face to face with a _monster_.

He swallowed, and dropped his gaze in respect.

“My lord,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady and only partially succeeding. “It's an honour to meet such an esteemed-"

“Shut up,” the Sith snarled, and Iypri did just that, feeling his heart tremble.

Those deep amber eyes were unnerving and heated.

“You’re the one who is going to work on my arm, yes?” he demanded, and Iypri could only nod.

The Twi'lek was working on the ruined arm with her tongue between her teeth, but she jumped when her hand slipped and the Sith hissed in pain, spitting out a curse with enough venom that she swallowed thickly before getting back to work. The Sith shook his head, seemingly to focus.

“Good.” The Sith bit out, looking back to Iypri. “What do you need from me?”

Iypri swallowed his terror.

“Uh, measurements will be the most important thing.” He managed, “From that I can draw up some designs and you can pick one.”

Quinn nodded.

“I will handle the measurements.” He assured, and Iypri almost wept with gratitude. No way was he getting close to that _animal._

Lord Polaris grunted as the Twi'lek pulled at a bandage.

“When I get my hands on Baras I’m going to pull _his_ fucking arms off and watch him flop around on the floor.” He said with a humourless, nasty sneer. It was a mean looking thing, all hate and venom. “And when I’ve had my fun, then _maybe_ I’ll kill him.”

Iypri’s hands shook.

The Sith's eyes glimmered in the shadow of their sockets, and his smile was feral and _pointy._

“M-my lord,” he began, and had to force air into his lungs as those eyes fixed on him again. “I must tell you that I don’t do uh, combat prosthetics.” He swallowed when the Sith narrowed his eyes. “My pieces are... are art, they won’t help you in the- in the field.”

_They won’t help you tear your Master limb from limb._

Then, the young Sith smiled again. It lacked the cruelty of the previous one, but it still make Iypri feel like he was about to be eaten.

“I know,” Polaris assured. “I know what I want. He will not see how much he cost me. He _betrayed_ me,” he hissed, and something crimson flickered in his eyes. “And I’ll see him dead by my own strength.”

Iypri could only nod.

“I... It would be better for you if the arm- if the arm could socket into the shoulder.” He offered, his voice weak. “More solid connection, and you can add a proper port.”

The Mirialan raised an eyebrow. “You want me to cut off _more_ of my arm?” he asked, and Iypri shook his head.

“No. Well, yes? It’s up to you,” he hastened to explain. “But it would be better done at the shoulder. I... it can be part of the procedure, if you want? I’m not a surgeon, but-"

Quinn interrupted him.

“Thank you. We will think on it.” He assured, and Iypri could only nod silently.

The Sith really was young, he realised. This howling, spitting monster was probably only a few years older than his youngest.

He seemed so much _more_ , wrapped in pain and power even as he sat in a medbay, half dead.

Polaris (he supposed he shouldn’t call him that, any more), laughed, and it made the hair on Iypri’s skin stand up.

He kept laughing until only a smile was left, crinkling his eyes and showing pointed canine teeth.

“I’ll see you paid well,” the Sith assured. “Even without my family's money, I can give you more credits than you’ve ever made in a single job.” He grinned, pained and predatory. “But I think the real payment will be when you see the news that Darth Baras is dead by my hand, and you’ll know one of your pieces was partly responsible. You’ll have helped fell a _Darth.”_

His voice took on a purring quality that unnerved him, and Iypri got the feeling that he was being played with. He was being batted around like a hapless thing that had wandered into the sight of a bored Nexu.

The Sith ran his tongue over his teeth and grinned at him, and Iypri just wanted to _run._

Running though, was the first mistake.

“Captain Quinn will handle the peripherals.” The Sith said suddenly, breaking the spell. “I expect your perfection, nothing less.”

The threat wasn’t subtle, but it was unspoken.

Iypri nodded, heart in his mouth.

“Of course, my lord.” He assured with a bow.

The Sith turned away from him, disinterested now the fun was gone. The Twi’lek prodded something painful, and he spat out another violent curse, form tense and pained.

Aching from holding himself so tense for so long, he allowed Captain Quinn to escort him out of the medbay and back to the docking area.

The oppressive feeling began to clear the further away he got, but it never truly faded.

Not even when he was in his bed, trying fruitlessly to sleep, did it abate.

That _thing_ was still on the planet.

It was no doubt sitting in that awful ship, snapping and snarling at that poor slave.

Captain Quinn has sent over the pertinent details within hours of his leaving the _Fury._

He would begin work in the morning.

* * *

Many months later, when he was working away on a piece in his workshop, he heard the bulletin and glanced up.

So, Darth Baras was dead.

He had been killed by his former apprentice.

Iypri swallowed hard, and forced himself to keep working.

He remembered every plate, every tiny connector, every servo.

He could picture it now, if he tried.

It had been a marvel of a piece, functional and simplistic in it’s beauty.

It was barely visible under the armour and the clawed gauntlets, but Iypri imagined it stained with blood.

When he slept, it was all he dreamed of.

His most beautiful piece, befouled and awful.

Blood would drip from the fingertips and congeal in the connectors, gore and filth clogging the synthetic muscle fibre and tiny servos.

He felt sick, and wished he had never answered the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven never did take losing very well.


	49. Trouble, big trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the flicker in the Force that tells them something is amiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I would do the original 'proposal', so here it is! Poor Malavai.
> 
> Ven is... something.

It's the flicker in the Force that tells them something is amiss.

It's a brief spark, but so bright and intense that the padawan gasps and her knees buckle.

The Knight catches her, patting her on the back kindly.

Master Gehnso holds up a hand, her insides turning cold.

That was _Dark Side_ power.

She can feel the residue of the spike in her mind, burning white hot and filled with _rage._

It’s almost overwhelming, even as an echo.

They can’t just _ignore_ that.

After a brief discussion, they head west after the source.

As they grow closer, they find _devastation_.

Bodies lie crumpled and broken in the grass, armour dented and crushed with some massive force.

Droids are cut to pieces and scattered like pins, and there is blood soaking into the earth.

A defaced Imperial walker lies toppled on its side, its legs mangled and scorched. The cockpit is crushed, and blood drips from the shattered screen. There’s graffiti on it, and she recognises the crude symbol of the Balmorran resistance.

The presence of the Force here is tangible.

Emotions flicker and whirl like eddies of vapour, and it’s hard to keep focused on one as it slips between her mental fingers.

They examine the wreckage, and Master Gehnso can’t help but feel cold at the thought of these soldiers, up against something they could never understand.

The air tastes like blood and smoke and _power_ , and it makes the padawan shiver.

She gets the impression that it wasn’t a co-ordinated attack on their soldiers. If anything, the frantic feelings she's getting make it seem like their men attacked first, probably by ambush. They had no idea what they would be up against.

A wisp of something tugs her in the direction of the cliffs, and she spots blood splashed over flattened grass.

Scorch marks and mangled bodies pave the way.

“They headed this way." She murmurs, eyes on the cliffs. “They were pursued.”

She grits her teeth.

“I can feel hate, and rage and...fear.”

The fear was a surprise. It had an awful metallic taste in the Force, like biting down on an old coin.

What Sith would be _afraid_?

What on this mudball would be able to frightening one of those monsters?

They track the blood and the snatches of power across the grasses, and towards the cliffs. There’s A cave opening further along, and Master Gehnso pauses.

“This might be a trap,” she murmurs, casting her eyes to the padawan. There's only one of them, and she is the student of _her_ student, the Knight that trails behind her, so much older now than when she had first met him.

She is walking them towards something she didn’t know if they would come back from.

_Sith._

The padawan swallows and nods, her hands clenched at her side.

“I know, Master.” She agrees. “But we should go anyway. What if someone is still alive in there?”

Warmth blooms in her belly for a moment.

“You trained her well,” she says to her student, who smiles, pleased.

He grins.

“Of course I did."

She doesn’t insult them by asking again.

She turns and, without a glance back, walks into the cave.

It’s cool and dark and smells like moss, blood and char.

It's a shallow cave, and they hear the sounds of something reverberating down the length of the rock walls. It’s too muffled to make out what the sound is, but it sets them on edge.

It looks to be an abandoned mine entrance, the support beams rusting and depleted veins of some colourful ore striping the walls.

They pick their way further in, hands on their weapons.

A mangled body here, a splash of gore there. The dust has been disturbed at their feet, like something was dragged.

The feeling of fear and panic sets her fur on edge, and she knows that the heaviness in the air is the Dark Side.

Little gods, it's so _much._

She's no pushover, but this feels so dense and heavy and burning that she's little more than an ant caught in a firestorm.

The only thing she can compare it to is watching to Masters Vol and V’lante as they sparred, when the air felt heavy with power she could feel. They held back, but she had the feeling this Darksider wouldn’t do the same.

Walking towards something with a presence that could match the Battlemaster is not comforting, especially as she sees the blood leaking from a crumpled helmet tossed to one side.

Scorch marks on the walls show where lightsabers glanced off the stone, but they were few and far between. It was odd, that whoever the Darksider was, they had chosen to use the Force over their weapons.

The sound it louder and clearer now, and it sounds like words, spoken in a low, frantic tone.

“-come _on,_ oh _stars_ -"

The cursing continues and Master Gehnso can _taste_ the fear. She steals her nerve, draws her weapon, and steps into the dim light of the back of the cave.

It’s only for a moment she sees her quarry, but it’s enough.

A young Mirialan, hunched over a body.

Without thinking, her weapon drops a few inches.

Where is the Sith?

Then the young man looks up and her breath is stolen from her chest.

His eyes _burn_ amber, and when he sees their robes and ‘sabres, his expression changes to one of hate.

Hr scrambles for his weapons while still on his knees, igniting his own blade, and the crimson light filling the shallow cavern.

He stays close to the body at his side, blocking it from view with his body.

“ _Jedi_.” He hisses, and he bares sharp teeth. She hears the padawan gasp.

“Stay back,” he warns, snapping. “I’ll gut the lot of you.”

The feeling of fear spikes, and the metallic feeling if it makes her teeth ache.

There’s blood smeared over his cheek, and she can’t tell if it's his or not.

Crimson runs from his wrist where it has trickled down his hand from his clawed gauntlets, and she dreads to think what he did to have his hands literally dripping with gore.

The padawan makes a fearful noise, and cringes when the Sith looks at her.

Master Gehnso peers past the snarling Sith to the body behind him.

It’s hard to make out anything notable, but it's dressed in an Imperial Army uniform that’s steadily being dyed red with blood.

The Sith notices her stare and glances at the body. The fear spikes again, so suffocating that Master Gehnso almost sways with the intensity of it.

The Sith looks torn and, to her surprise, terrified.

“Don’t you dare touch him.” The Sith snarls, protective.

He’s like a wild animal defending a pack mate, all spitting curses and defensive display.

The Knight steps forwards and the Sith snarls at him, baring those teeth in warning.

“Just leave and maybe I won’t tear you apart.” The Sith bites out, but Master Gehnso has always been good with sensing truth. He's frightened.

“You're coming with us.” She says firmly, stepped up. He growls at her, and those molten eyes _burn_. She will not be intimidated.

“The fuck I will.” He spits, curling further over the body at his side.

She shakes her head.

“I’m afraid that is not up for debate.” She insists, sorrowful. This creature is steeped in darkness like overdone tea, all snapping teeth and fury.

She steps forward again and raises her weapon, hoping she didn’t have to use it.

The Sith's eyes are wide, and he moves to shield the body behind him.

“Don’t hurt him,” he says breathlessly, form tense.

The padawan tilts her head.

“He's dying.” She murmurs, her eyes fixed on the officer that lay there, blood soaking the stone.

The Sith’s expression crumples and he clenches his fists.

“I know,” he says lowly, “And if you don’t let me leave with him, I’ll rip your throat out.”

The padawan, startled out of her trance, steps closer to the Knight.

Master Gehnso frowns. “Even if you could kill all three of us, you won’t leave him unattended.” she says with certainty.

Before the Sith could speak, the body he is shielding moves slightly, and he makes the faintest sound of pain.

In a moment, the Sith is hovering over him, brushing his hair back from his face and staunching the fresh wave of blood. He looks terrified.

She can feel him pulling desperately on the Force, but it fizzles out before it could take form. She isn’t sure what he is trying to do, but it doesn’t seem harmful. His movements are panicked and manic, and he fumbles as he tries again and again.

“I... I can’t heal him.” He mumbles almost to himself, glancing back. “I don’t know how.”

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Let me get help for him and... I’ll surrender.” He whispers, glancing up through his eyelashes. His voice is quiet but desperate.

Gehnso barely believes her ears.

She shakes her head.

“I don’t believe that,” she murmurs, apologetic. “I can’t trust a Sith.”

The Mirialan looks about ready to attack her, or cry. She can’t tell which.

She feels guilt eating at her belly, but it wouldn’t be the first time a Sith had gotten the best of a Jedi through trickery.

There is silence for a moment, before the padawan takes a breath and steps forward again.

“I can heal him.” She says firmly, her hands shaking. She is frightened, and Gehnso hears her gasp as those eyes settle on her again.

The Sith swallows, his eyes wide and expression not daring to hope.

He is so _young._

The Knight frowns.

“Padawan, don’t-"

With surprising grace, she brushes him off. She is nervous and skittish, but she seems focused.

“I can heal him.” She repeats, and Gehnso holds out a hand to stop her, alarmed.

“Padawan, are you sure?” she asks seriously.

The padawan nods, and the Sith looks at them searchingly.

“If you hurt him...” he growls, threatening even as he moves aside to let the padawan at the precious thing behind him.

“You kill me, I know.” The padawan whispers, frightened beyond her wits, shaking like a leaf as she walks closer. “What happened?”

The Sith, so tense his movements look stiff, kneels beside the fallen Imperial.

“Ambush. We were heading along the west road towards the city when the speeder hit a rebel landmine.” He mutters. “Then they came at us, and we defended ourselves.”

Gehnso feels uneasy and tense watching the padawan kneel at the side of an Imperial, a Sith not two feet from her. From how her hands shake, the padawan is just as nervous.

If this carnage is just ‘defending himself' then she wouldn’t like to see an all-out attack.

The Sith stays close to the Imperial, his expression softening into something Gehnso is hesitant to describe as affection.

The human man is slipping in an out of consciousness, and the moments when his eyes open, she can see their blue is dazed and unseeing.

Something is bundled behind his head, and she realises that it was the same black material as the Sith is wearing over his greaves. Sure enough, it is torn.

She watches him raise a hand and, careful of those wicked claws, brush damp hair from the Imperial's forehead.

“Who is he?” the Knight asks, staying close to his student. His hand never strays from his weapon.

The Sith looks at him dully.

“He's my lover.” He says simply, sounding oddly bitter.

_Oh._

“And the Captain of my ship.” He adds, voice so quiet they need to strain to hear him.

The padawan works, opening up the tattered uniform to reveal bloodied skin and a deep wound in the man’s torso. It’s a nasty looking thing, and Gehnso thinks that it’s a wonder the man isn’t already dead.

“I can’t lose him,” the Sith mumbles pitifully, staying close and brushing damp, tangled hair off the human’s brow. “I _can’t_.”

This is why emotional attachments are forbidden, she thinks, if this is what they do to you.

The padawan's movements are getting frantic, and she is beginning to panic.

“It's too much,” she whimpers, her connection to the Force wavering. “It’s too _much.”_

The Sith’s eyes are huge and worried.

“What?” he demands, “What do you need?”

Gehnso feels useless, and it’s a horrible feeling. She’s not good at healing. Neither is her student. The padawan has an unusual gift for it, and the kind of sweet nature that will make her into a wonderful healer.

If she survives this, that is.

The padawan is shaking, and tears are rolling down her cheeks. She looks like she is in pain.

“I- the Force- I can't-"

She can’t channel enough power. She’s too young, too inexperienced, too tired.

The Sith's expression would have frightened her if she hadn’t known that he was merely terrified of losing his lover.

“I... can you use mine?” he asked in a hurry, golden eyes wide. “If I help you, can you do it?”

The padawan’s look is unsure, even as her hands are covered in blood.

The Imperial is fading.

They can all feel it.

Gehnso shakes her head.

“Padawan, you cannot.” She urges, “That kind of power is dark, it will corrupt you.”

 “He's _dying_.” The Sith snarls at her, panicked. “I'm not trying to- to- to _turn_ her. I don’t give a fuck about prodding some padawan into a Fall, I just want to _save_ him.”

Gehnso shakes her head and feels awful. Guilt chews at the inside of her belly.

“Even if is not your intention, I can feel your darkness, Sith. She must not touch that. She _cannot.”_

The Sith looks like he is about to cry, frustration and something awful twisting his face until he has to turn away.

He hunches over the Imperial, touching his ashen, blood smeared face.

“ _Please_ ,” she hears him whisper to his lover, and it sounds so broken that a wave of guilt and hurt threatens to make her head rush. She quickly suppresses them, breathing them out until coolness settles over her like a mantle.

“Please don’t go.”

A crack.

Hurt wriggles through again.

The Knight is horrified, wringing his hands but staying still. He knows what has to be done.

The padawan is crying, tears running down her blotchy cheeks as her shoulders shake. The Knight reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

The Sith's cheeks are wet with tears.

“Please-" he repeats, “Please don’t leave me alone.”

Gehnso shut her eyes. She wishes she could shut her ears too.

It is useless. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, the Imperial will die. The wound is mortal and he is fading fast.

The Sith cups the unconscious man’s face in his hands, so delicate even with those vicious claws on his fingertips.

“I promise I’ll make an honest man out of you if you just _stay with me_.” He begs, his sobs wracking his body. “ _Please.”_

Suddenly, the padawan grabs his hand and, before anyone could stop her, _pulls_ on the Force.

“ _No-!”_ She hears the Knight shout, and she feels her own body jerk forward in an attempt to stop it.

The padawan gasps as she feels the power brushing against her senses. Her body is stiff and she looks pained, her eyes unseeing.

The Sith’s own eyes are wide in shock, tear tracks drying on his green skin.

Gehnso isn’t sure what she is doing, but it makes the Sith draw in a sudden breath when she moves their hands to rest on the wound.

Slowly, painfully and with great effort, the wound begins to _close_.

The Knight looks ready to tear her away, but Gehnso stops him with a hand. If he disturbs them now, when they don’t know the consequences, it could hurt her.

It seems to take an age for the wound to close.

There are moments when the padawan gasps out in pain or something else when the Sith pushes too hard, but Gehnso and the Knight stay still.

She has a very bad feeling about this.

Eventually, they stop.

It’s not an explosion of power or a glittering light show to mark the end of a miracle, and the officer doesn’t sit up with a gasp.

The padawan just let’s go of the Sith's hand, and gently topples back to sit in a sprawl on the floor.

The Sith is all over his lover, checking and rechecking him.

His relief is palpable, and Gehnso has never felt such _lightness_ coming from an Imperial before.

She looks to the padawan, who sits on a dazed heap, exhausted and... different.

She peers into the Force, hesitant of what she might find.

The padawan is a whirl of emotion and power, fluttering by faster than she can discern them.

She stops looking when it gives her a headache.

“Padawan?” she prompts, the Knight already fussing over his student. “Are you alright?”

The padawan looks up blankly, and Gehnso can’t say she isn’t relieved that her eyes are still brown.

“Padawan?” she prompts, concerned. The Knight is checking her over.

The padawan glances up, and smiles tiredly.

“Yes.” she says quietly, but it’s resolute. “I just... I couldn’t not help. He isn’t healed fully, but he is stable. He will live.”

The Knight, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

“We will speak of this later.” He says firmly, but his tone is kind and relieved.

Gehnso directs her attention back to the Sith. He is fussing over his unconscious lover, and his hands are shaking.

She steps towards him.

“You will come with us now. You must uphold your side of the deal.” She murmurs, she he shoots her a venomous look.

“The fuck I will.” He spits, aggressive.

Gehnso wishes she could be surprised. She draws her blade, sky blue filling the cavern.

After all, he is _Sith._

Perhaps this would be a valuable lesson for the padawan.

“I don’t owe you _shit_ ,” he sneers, but his eyes soften when he looks towards the startled padawan. “But I do owe her.”

Gehnso blinks, mind lagging for a second.

The Sith gives her a wry smile, tired and shaken. “You tried to stop her.” He accuses “You wanted him dead. _She_ helped anyway.”

Gehnso wants to protest. She didn’t want the Imperial dead at all, the risk was just too high.

He fixes burning eyes on the padawan, who looks flayed by the attention.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, heartfelt. Gehnso can feel his sincerity and it shakes her. “Let me set an emergency beacon.” He says and doesn’t wait for permission. He sets up the small transponder, and they watch him closely as he does so.

He sets it in his lovers’ hands, and pauses. With a pained expression, he squeezes his eyes shut and leans over to press a soft, lingering kiss on the human’s brow as he clutches a cold hand. He whispers something unintelligible, but it looks like it hurt to say. Gehnso gets the feeling it was a goodbye.

He pulls away with a wetness to his eyes that makes him look awfully young.

“My crew will find him.” He says thickly, blinking as he wipes his cheeks. “I... I’ll uphold my end of the deal.”

Without a further word, he stands up and ignores their collective flinches at the sudden movement.

With his jaw set and a stiffness to his step, he unclips twin lightsabers from his belt and, with the faintest sense of ceremony, hands them to the padawan with a small incline of his head.

Her thin arms dip with the weight of the gunmetal hilts, and Gehnso can see her staring at the Sith weapons in fascination and a little awe.

The Sith, haggard and pained, gives her a look.

“Take care of those,” he says with a small smile. “I’ll be wanting them back, one day.”

His expression hardens as he turns to Gehnso, the tattoos on his face making him look sharper than he was.

“Well?” he demands, “Let’s go, before I change my mind.”

The Knight comes up behind him and snaps a pair of cuffs around his wrists. They’re Force dampening ones, but not Force inhibitors.

Gehnso mentally notes to get the heaviest duty ones she can find. She doesn’t trust this Sith at all.

The Sith takes one last pained look at the prone form lying on the stone in a pool of blood, before he closes his eyes and allows himself to be led away.

* * *

She can’t stop looking at him.

He smiles at her from where he's sat in camp, his wrists shackled and attached to the speeder. He's still in his armour, matte black and intimidating. It’s still splashed with blood, and she wonders how he can stand having it on him. She supposes that she doesn’t want to know.

Master Gehnso doesn’t like it when she watches him, but she can’t help herself.

She hasn’t even met a Sith before, and she can’t help but be fascinated by this one.

He's been quiet, but the memory of his power mingling with hers makes her bones itch.

Her own master is worried for her, and she appreciates the concern, but really, she's fine.

She might only be a padawan, but she’s not _stupid._

Without the Force, he's harmless.

She keeps telling herself that.

“Do you have a multi-tool?” he asks suddenly, and she blinks.

He hasn’t spoken since they left the cavern, his face drawn and pained.

He left his lover back there, and that looks like it hurt.

She feels sorry for him, although she knows she shouldn’t.

“You can’t have it.” She murmurs, feeling shy.

He shrugs. “I need to fix my arm. I can feel something out of alignment.”

She blinks, and he gives her a _look._

“My _arm_ , apprentice.” He says like she’s being slow. “It's cybernetic.”

_Oh._

She feels herself blush.

“I didn’t realise.” She mutters. “But you still can’t have it. And I’m not an apprentice, I’m a padawan.”

He waves a dismissive hand as best he can, his cuffs jingling.

“Whatever.” He scoffs, and she can’t help but stare at his eyes, glimmering in the gloom. “You're a learner, yes?”

She nods cautiously. “I am. What about you?”

He tilts his head, and a slow smile spreads over his face. She feels like she's being watched by something hungry, and she unconsciously curls in on herself.

“What _about_ me, padawan?” he asks, prompting her to answer with a grin.

She frowns.

“Are you an apprentice?”

He laughs, and it’s a loud, unrestrained thing.

“Everyone serves someone.” He says knowingly, and doesn’t seem to want to elaborate.

She takes that as a ‘yes'.

* * *

When he's in their holding cell, people seem drawn to him.

They’ve stripped him of his armour but allowed him to keep his under suit on. It’s black and tight, and hugs the broadness of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist and the swells of his arms and thighs. One hand is matte black nanocarbon, the other is as green as the rest of him.

He grins at her as he lounges like a big cat, all sharp teeth and muscle.

“My favourite padawan.” He greets, and she can’t help but be a little flattered at that.

He must have been allowed to clean up, because the blood is gone from his skin and his dark curls are clean and brushed back from his face.

He eyes her as she creeps closer.

She shouldn’t be here.

Master Gehnso told her not to.

She came anyway.

The guards seem to be wary of him as they should be, but she notices one or two watching him with curiosity.

The researchers certainly find him fascinating, but they don’t dare approach his cell after he snarled at one of them.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, curious.

He blinks at her, those liquid gold eyes surprised.

“You’re a strange Jedi,” he says with a small smile, and she doesn’t really understand what he means.

“I could be worse.” He shrugs, “But I certainly could be better. It’s like no one in this place had ever seen a Sith before.”

He rolls his eyes, but there is something tense in his expression as he fixes his eyes on her.

“I am grateful to you, but I would rather go home.”

She had never thought about him, or any Sith, having a _home._

Her thoughts must show on her face, because he scoffs and tosses his head.

He's very theatrical, she muses.

“Didn’t think a Sith would miss home, did you?” he calls her out, smirking. “I miss my crew, and I miss my droids cooking. I miss my holonovels and a decent cup of tea.”

At the mention of his lover, the man she had healed in that cave and then left there in the dust, he falls quiet.

“I miss him.” He admits easily, expression oddly challenging.

She feels something like pity bloom in her chest.

What was it like, she wonders, to feel something so strongly for someone? Looking at the Sith now, she isn’t sure if it's worth it.

She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but he cuts her off.

“Don’t apologise.” He says firmly, a furrow in his brows. “You might care now, but you won’t when you’re a big Jedi.” He said meanly, his eyes hurt. “Jedi don’t feel _anything_ , remember. They don’t know how to be sorry.”

* * *

He’s there for _weeks._

He seems to be coping badly, with the isolation and the cramped conditions. Someone has given him some books and he’s read them all and has now resorted to playing mind games with the researchers and security guards.

She accompanies her master when he goes in to interrogate the Sith, but it usually just ends in frustration for the Jedi and mean laughter from the Sith.

“What’s your name?” she hears her master ask yet again, and she already knows the answer.

“That’s an interesting question,” the Sith muses with a theatrical smirk. “What _is_ a name, really?”

She swears she can hear her master grinding his teeth.

The Sith seems to delight be being annoying.

He’s very good at it.

“I’ll trade you.” She says suddenly, and the Sith glances at her. Every time he looks at her, she can feel the memory of burning power on his skin.

“Oh?” he prompts, “What will you give me for it?”

“You can have my name.” she offers quickly, ignoring her master’s pained expression. She is not supposed to speak to the Sith. She is _definitely_ not supposed to be bantering with him.

He grins and shakes his head.

“I already know your name,” he says, and she feels her eyes go wide. He laughs. “One of the guards told me. She wants to see me naked.”

He lets out a cackle at their expressions, pleased with himself.

“She always manages to be on duty when they let me use the fresher.” He smiles, amused. “So, I traded her a kiss for your names.”

She’s aware that she’s gaping, but she can’t believe what she’s hearing. He’s a _prisoner_.

Her master makes a strangled sort of noise and glowers at the prisoner, who winks at him.

“I wonder what information I could get for a few _more_ kisses?” he teases and grins as her master blushes crimson.

She would bet her horns that she’s going to get a telling off about this later.

She folds her arms.

“If you know my name, why don’t you use it?” she challenges, flushing. She curses her cheeks.

He grins at her, eyes bright. She realises that this must be the highlight of his now very boring days.

“What kind of Sith would I be, if I showed my hand to soon?” he replies, and she’s now surer than ever that he doesn’t actually know her name at all.

“You won’t show your hand, but you seem happy to show everything else.” She mutters, and her master chokes on air behind her.

The Sith laughs again.

“Jealous, darling?” he purrs, those bright eyes fixed on her. “You know my heart belongs to another. My body, though…” he trails off, teasing.

She wrinkles her nose.

“You’re disgusting.” She mumbles, cheeks painfully hot.

He shrugs.

“You do sound awfully like him when you say that,” he admits airily. “It’s almost like being home.”

She’s silent for a little too long and he sighs, his smile fading.

“Oh, you’re no fun. I didn’t kiss the guard.” He rolls his eyes. “I heard them talking about you when they brought me my breakfast.” He admits before he pauses. “The guard definitely wants to see me naked though, and she _does_ spy on me in the shower. That bit was true.”

She turns to leave as he laughs.

He’s a horrible creature.

“Come back soon, _Hallen.”_ He calls after her, and she all but runs out of the room.

* * *

She does come back.

She’s not supposed to, but Master Gehnso and her own master are busy, and she has finished her training for the day.

Her feet bring her to his cell.

He’s looking morose today, nothing like the hyperactive, manic thing he so often is.

It’s strange, seeing him without a smile.

“Not today, I’m not in the mood.” He grunts as she draws closer.

She’s affronted. He’s the prisoner here, he shouldn’t be giving orders to anybody.

“Why?” she asks instead, having learned by now that arguing with him just gets her nowhere and with hurt feelings. He can be vicious when she prods him.

He glances to her, and his eyes are dull.

“It’s been almost a month.” He murmurs. “I miss my boyfriend and my friends.”

He has _friends._ It’s so odd to imagine a Sith as a normal person with a life outside of terrorising Jedi.

He gives a humourless smile.

“I was wondering what they’re doing right now.” He admits. “If… If they even found him in time.”

She bites her lip.

“I’m sure they did.” She tries, but it sounds lame to her ears. “He was stable when we left.”

He huffs out a breath.

“Yeah, I suppose. I wonder if he thinks I left him?” he muses, glancing towards the ceiling. He’s sitting on the plain bed, his back against the headboard and one leg swinging off the side. He looks bored and sad.

She doesn’t know how to answer that question.

He closes his eyes, and he seems pained.

“I told him I would marry him one day.” He breathes out, shoulders slack. “I guess I won’t now.”

“Why did you give yourself up?” she asks suddenly. “I didn’t think any Sith would ever _surrender_. I thought it was tantamount to betrayal in the Empire.”

He frowns as he opens his eyes to pin her with a look.

“He was _dying.”_ he snaps, and something sharp presses against her senses before it’s gone. He sighs and looks so desperately miserable that she is suddenly overwhelmed with pity.

“I would rather he live hating me, than have died loving me.” He whispers, and his eyes are screwed shut to hide tears.

The lump in her throat hurts, but the feeling of guilt hurts more.

* * *

“I still don’t know who you are.” She says idly as she sits on the floor, the buzz from the forcefield making the hair on her arm stand up.

He’s sitting on the other side, peering at the crossword she’s showing him. It must be hard to see through the glowing fuzziness, but he manages.

“You mean they haven’t found out who I am yet?” he scoffs, “That’s embarrassing. Manka, four down.”

She tuts as she fills it in.

“If they have, they haven’t told me.” She mutters, peering at the holopad.

He hums and stretches. She refuses to look.

“How old are you?” she asks, curious.

He blinks at her.

“What an odd question.” He says with a raised brow. “Most people would start by asking my name.”

“We’ve _been_ asking you’re your name since you got here,” she says dryly. “It hasn’t paid off. So, I want to know how old you are instead.”

He shrugs.

“Older than you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously. What are you, fifty?”

He looks so offended that she can’t help but laugh, clutching at her stomach as her shoulders shake. Eventually, her belly laughs subside.

He huffs. “Funny. No, I’m thirty-one.”

She lets her giggles fade and looks at him.

“You’re eleven years older than me. You _are_ old.” She teases, and he gives her a look.

“I feel like this is revenge for me making fun of my boyfriend for being old.” He mutters, and she tilts her head. “Gumbroja, six across.”

“He’s older than _you?”_

“Yes,“ he drawls flatly, his accent making the words even more sarcastic. “It might seem impossible, but there _are_ actually beings in this galaxy that are older than me.”

She grins at him, and wonders when she got so comfortable in his presence.

“How old is he?” she asks, honestly curious.

“Forty-one.” He says easily. “Ancient.”

He falls quiet and she senses him slipping into melancholy again.

“Why are you Mirialan?” she asks before her filter kicks in, and she blushes as he snorts.

She really needs to think before she speaks.

“I’m actually human. I dyed myself green when I was a child and it never washed off.” He says smoothly, smirking.

She refuses to respond to that.

“I mean, I thought Sith were only pureblooded or human.” She asks, tilting her head. It’s been bothering her for a while.

He shakes his head.

“Usually, yes. Not always though. We respect power in any form,” he says frankly. “Earn your place, and no one will dare question you. It doesn’t matter if you’re green, you’ve got horns or fur or no eyes, step up and show us what you’re made of.” He says, passionate. “You want an example of that? Look at Darth Nox. He was a _slave_ for most of his life, and now he’s the only Miraluka on the Dark Council.” He says with a shrug. “He’s earned his place.”

She frowns. “That sounds like you know him personally.”

He smirks at her, and for a moment he’s the tiger in the cage again, teeth and eyes and hunger.

“Maybe I do.” He allows. “Then what?”

She swallows.

“Then you must be pretty high up yourself.” She murmurs, and his smile widens. “You said you were an apprentice.”

He shrugs, leaning back,

“I don’t think I did.” He corrects playfully. “You assumed that.”

“Who are you, then?” she asks, wanting to know with such intensity that it surprises her.

He shrugs.

“I’m a lot of things.” He allows with a grin. “But you can call me Ven.”

* * *

“Hey,” he asks idly when he’s staring into the ceiling as she works on her studies, “Want to be my apprentice?”

She looks up, startled. “What?”

She shrugs, smirking at her as he glances over.

“You should be my apprentice. I’d teach you better than these boring stuffed robes.” He says with a grin.

She rolls her eyes.

“No. That is _never_ going to happen.” She assures him, going back to her reading. It doesn’t occur to her to study in her own room.

He shrugs again.

“Offer’s open.”

* * *

They have to move him, eventually.

The facility doesn’t have the resources to hold him for a truly long time nor to do the tests they want, so he’s to be shipped offworld.

Master Gehnso, her master and her are his escort, along with a compliment of the Republic’s finest.

He’s there, still dressed in that under suit that keeps distracting everyone, looking amused and watchful.

She has his possessions in a mag-case, and it feels heavier than it probably is.

She felt the use-worn wraps of his lightsabers as she packed them away, and she had run her fingers over them.

Once was crimson, she knows, but the other is a mystery. They were made from a dark metal, all clean lines and efficient styling. She scoffs, typical Imperial.

Still, they are _his._

She wonders how many people he’s killed with them.

She quickly put them away.

They had been briefed earlier about the plan to escort him, about how the cuffs were supposed to hold him and how it would all be _fine_.

Nerves flutter in her belly like she’s eaten butterflies.

She glances over and he's flirting with a guard, a muscular woman who looks like she barely won a fight with a rancor, judging by her facial scarring. She’s blushing and is trying not to smile.

He’s charming and funny and good looking in all the best ways, but he’s also capricious, impulsive and cruel.

She sighs and walks over, noting how his attention switches to her when she draws close.

His smile fades, and it hurts that it was because of her.

Except she doesn’t care. She _doesn’t._

He turns those eyes on her and she wonders what colour they used to be before he delved into the Dark Side.

She wishes he had never told her his name.

It makes him feel so much more like a person, rather than the formless archetype of ‘Sith'.

She wonders what it would be like to be loved by him.

That man she had healed in the cave, he must have been special to have such attention.

She wondered what he was like, and what _they_ were like.

Ven spoke so fondly of him, and the anonymous stories started to become a nebulous idea of a person.

She had broken that.

She sighed, knowing it was for the best.

“We’re leaving.” She says, and she won’t miss this place. It’s devoid of personality, the only source of colour and interest in it is currently in shackles, waiting to be led away.

Balmorra is a desolate place, and she wishes she were back on Tython. She misses the forests and the streams.

Ven had spoken vaguely about Dromund Kaas and Korriban, and it was fascinating to hear someone speak about it like they _knew_ it. Of course he did, he’s _Imperial_.

He smiled as he described the gleaming skyscrapers of Kaas City, the dark jungle that held bioluminescent plant life and ancient ruins. He recalled exploring some of them in his youth, telling her about the time when he was twelve and he had fallen off a particularly large rock and broken his wrist. He had shaken his cybernetic hand ruefully, and smiled, telling her that at least it didn’t ache in the cold anymore.

He had grinned and spoken some words in some harsh language she could only describe as ‘sharp’. He refused to translate, and she could only assume that it was something rude.

She knows she’s in trouble.

She wants to know what it feels like to have him hug her.

She’s always been tiny, too thin and too short. He’s much bigger than she is, all solid and broad. She imagines he’s warm. She wants him to wrap her up in his arms and keep her close.

She wants to blame him, but she knows that she can’t. He’s flirted with her master more than with her, although it seems like he only does it to annoy.

That seems to be his reason for doing a lot of things.

She sighs and shakes herself, hoping to dislodge the intrusive thoughts that have taken up residence in her head.

It’s time to move.

Three Jedi and eight fully trained soldiers seems like overkill, but when she sets her eyes on him, she wonders if it’s enough.

He’s smiling like a firaxan shark, eyes fixed on what he seems to think is the weak link of their group. Surprise surprise, it isn’t her. The poor solider looks jittery and nervous.

“Leave him alone.” She says, and it comes out more exasperated than forceful.

He winks at her and shifts his shoulders. The restraints clink.

She steps away, feeling suffocated in his presence.

He’s got dampeners on his wrists and a heavy collar around his neck that dulls his connection to the Force, but she still feels unnerved standing too close.

It’s probably just nerves.

* * *

They’re almost to the shuttle pad when he stops walking. He looks confused and wary.

One of the soldier’s grunts something and shoves him with the butt of his rifle and the Sith bares his teeth at him in a snarl. He shakes his head and frowns like he’s trying to hear something in a crowd, before his eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to shout.

The landmine goes off with the kind of sound she can’t describe.

She is picked up with the force of it and for a moment she can’t think or feel anything but a tumbling sensation before she’s slammed into the ground hard enough for her to have the breath knocked from her. Something hurts in her chest and she’s badly winded, her vision swimming and her ears ringing.

She manages to glance up, and it’s _carnage_.

The air is heavy with bitter smoke and something metallic, and it makes her cough when she breathes.

The sound of blasters and shouting reaches her ears, and it all sounds like it’s underwater.

Her master.

Where is her master?

He was walking next to her, but he isn’t there now.

She spots a crumple of brown robe over to the side of the road and stumbles over to it, only to find Master Gehnso in a heap, unconscious and bleeding from a wound on her head.

Dread filling her gut, she tugs on the Force and checks Master Gehnso over.

She’s injured but stable, and Hallen wants to collapse with relief.

She doesn’t.

She levers herself up and draws her lightsaber. Sea green always did focus her, and it does so now.

She needs to help.

She doesn’t know what’s going on, only that she needs to _help_.

She stumbles forward, the thing in her ribs twinging again. She thinks she might have bruised them, but since she isn’t actively dying and there might be people who _are_ , she ignores it.

There’s a crater where the mine went off, and half the road has collapsed around it. A few mangled bodies have fallen into it, and she spares them a glance before moving on.

She can’t help them now. They’re gone.

She wants to vomit, but she swallows it down and forces herself onward.

Shots hit the earth around her, and she throws herself to the ground without thinking, gasping as the muddy cold seeps into her clothes.

She glances up and comes face to face with a hand.

It’s an armoured one, and it’s covered in blood and streaked with mud. The body its attached to is missing its head.

She screams and scrambles back, her hand slipping in the mud.

That armour isn’t Republic.

It isn’t even Imperial.

She recognises the badge worn proudly on the buckled chest piece as the one matching the defaced Imperial walker from so long ago.

Balmorran rebels.

The more violent chapter hate the Republic almost as much as they hate the Empire.

Taking a breath and steeling her nerve, she managed to get up without slipping, and makes it two steps before someone calls her name.

She recognises that voice. It’s her master, and she runs to him. He’s injured and in pain, lying there in the mud and blood as he tried to move himself.

“Are you alright?” he asks immediately, worry etched into every line of his face. She nods, and her hands are shaking.

“Yes,” she manages, “Master Ghenso is unconscious back there.”

He nods and tries to move. He cries out and his strength leaves him, causing his arm to buckle. She barely catches him, and he pants for breath.

“Barely managed to fend them off.” He breathes, “I don’t-“

“ _There_ you are.”

She starts as she hears his voice. She had almost forgotten him.

He’s as covered in mud as the rest of them, and his hands are still bound. He crouches low, his eyes bright and his expression grim.

“Rebels.” He grunts, hateful. “Same tactics that landed me with you lot.”

Her master gasps and clutches at her sleeve.

“Don’t-“

“Shut up.” The Sith orders and fixes his eyes on her.

“There’s too many of them,” he says with blunt honesty. “And you’re a _healer_. They’re about done with your men and soon they’ll be coming up here for you.”

He meets her eyes, and he looks regal even as dishevelled as he is. There’s a cut on his cheek and another over his brow.

“Let me free and I can help.”

Her master tugs at her sleeve.

“No.” he rasps, “Don’t.”

The Sith looks annoyed and, dare she say it, worried. “I’m not dying here because some Jedi couldn’t get over themselves,” he snarls, “Unlock the fucking shackles and your masters live.” He says harshly. “Don’t, and they put a bullet in us.”

She swallows, and the bottom drops out of her stomach.

Her master is mumbling something, and she can barely make out the words ‘ _monster’_ and ‘ _don’t’_.

The gunfire is getting more intense and she can hear it getting closer. She’s petrified.

“Come _on,_ Hallen!” the Sith snaps, his eyes wide.

“Don’t.” her master whispers, his strength fading.

She makes her choice and reaches for the Sith’s shackles.

Her master makes a pained noise and tries to move, no doubt to stop her, but he’s too weak to even lift his broken hands.

She keys in the code that unlocks the Force inhibitors, and she meets his eyes.

_Please_ , she thinks, _please_ _don’t_.

With an uninspiring ‘clank’, the cuffs fall away and within a moment he’s on her.

She falls back with a cry and a weave of panic before she realises that she isn’t dead. He’s got his hand on her lightsaber and is pulling it free from her belt. With a fluid motion, he draws it free, activates it, and buries it in the gut of the rebel about to fire on them.

His expression is pure malice, his teeth bared as he guts the woman like a fish. She falls to the side, dead.

She can _feel_ him.

He’s like the centre of a firestorm, like looking into the heart of a star. He’s unimaginable and terrible and she can’t look away.

He wields her weapon like it it’s his own, and sea green in his hands doesn’t seem to pure, now.

He’s a _monster._

He stands tall and flexes the Force, and she can feel it responding to his call.

That _power._

He isn’t anything she can describe. He’s certainly not the apprentice she assumed he was.

With a snarl he reaches out a hand and the rock face groans in protest. Cracks splinter up the slate until he tears a huge chunk off and sends it towards their opponents to crush them against the rock face.

It does it like it’s easy.

Hallen can’t even manage a boulder, let alone the speeder sized piece the Sith tore out of the living rock like he didn’t even try.

He fights like a demon, and she can only watch.

He’s blisteringly fast and undeniably brutal, elegant and acrobatic and stronger than she even knows how to find words for.

The rebels don’t stand a chance.

She watches as he suspends one in the air by her neck until he twitches his fingers and her neck snaps with such force that she can _hear_ it (oh stars she _heard_ it), before casting her broken body aside like it was nothing.

They’re running scared as he comes for them, drenched in blood and wreathed in malice, power wreathing his fingertips and hate in his eyes.

She tries to focus on healing her master.

He’s in bad shape.

She does what she can for him, the Force answering her call like struggling stream.

She realises it’s gone quiet.

She sees him coming through the smoke, the hum of her blade and the sea green glow are enough to give him away.

He’s covered in blood, and it drips onto the hilt of her lightsaber before falling to the mud. His eyes glimmer amber orange, and she can _taste_ the power in the air as he approaches.

It’s so heavy and dense she can barely breathe, laying over her like she’s being buried alive.

He pauses and gives her a sharp toothed smile.

“Much obliged.” He says like he hasn’t just murdered more people than she can count. “I’ll be going now. It’s been fun, darling.”

He gives her a smile and deactivates the blade in his hand. He tosses her the bloody hilt, stained and dripping with gore.

She doesn’t catch it, and it falls into the mud.

She can’t stop looking at him.

He’s different, when he’s not in chains.

It’s like looking at a vorn tiger in a zoo, and seeing one in the wild, eyes fixed on you.

One is beautiful, the other is _breath-taking_.

He’s not even winded, and she wonders how they ever managed to hold such a thing. She finds it hard to reconcile the man she sat with and talked to through a tingling force field with the beast that stands in front of her.

He tilts his head, looking at her as she kneels in the muck, clutching her master.

“Thank you.” He says eventually, and she blinks at him.

“For caring.” He finishes, expression softening. That power is less of a firestorm and more of a hearth now, warm and all-encompassing.

She can’t bring herself to speak.

He sighs, and shrugs.

“Sorry, but you can’t expect me to stay and let you chain me like a dog _again_.” He murmurs, before he leans closer.

For one bizarre moment, she thinks he might kiss her.

Instead, he brushes a strand of sodden hair from her eyes, expression soft.

His touch burns and she should cringe away. She doesn’t.

“Don’t let them ruin you,” he breathes, golden eyes shining like molten metal. “You’re more than that.”

He stands up and he gives her a grin, all teeth and smirk.

“Thanks again, sweetheart.”

* * *

When reinforcements finally arrive, they find her with blood up to her elbows, steadily helping the injured.

She looks at them blankly when they try to suggest she come with them, before calmly retorting that she isn’t done here, thank you.

The mag-case she had forgotten about was torn open like it was paper, the things inside gone save for a single hilt crafted in dark metal.

Her own is still lying somewhere in the mud where she had failed to catch it.

He had left one behind.

She reaches for it and it’s as heavy as she remembered, the wrapping worn and well cared for.

She ignites it and almost stumbles as the violet blade springs forth, illuminating everything in a soft light.

Violet.

She likes that.

* * *

It’s years later when she sees him again.

She’s just landed on Odessen with a few other recruits, and she’s feeling quite lost.

She’d seen him on the holonet, and she knew she couldn’t stay away. Her feelings are different now, and she’s older. Wiser. _Definitely_ less naive.

She still wants to see him.

The ‘saber is clipped to her belt, and she swallows hard as she makes a beeline for the figure with his head turned away from her, speaking to someone at his side.

The crowd seems to melt away as she stands there, staring.

He’s changed, but not by much.

The man at his side notices her, and she recognises him.

The lover.

He’s a pretty thing, all reticent eyes and defensive, prim posture. He doesn’t recognise her. He had been unconscious, after all.

There’s a ring on his finger, and her hearts _sings._

He turns to look at whatever has captured the Imperial’s attention, and his face goes slack for a moment before he breaks into a grin.

“So, you finally made it?” he asks, and she shrugs, nervous and awkward.

“Didn’t think you’d need me.”

He shakes his head. “The offer didn’t have an expiry date,” he says, and it’s oddly gentle.

She swallows hard.

“Good. Because it’s a long way back home.” She says, and he looks so delighted she can’t help but smile. His eyes drop to the lightsaber at her belt, and his smile widens.

“Come on then, apprentice. Let’s see what you can do with that thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone recognise Hallen? She's not an OC! She's the adorable zabrak who welcomes the Consular and directs them to Master Whettle for further training. She's adorable, so I borrowed her.
> 
> Master Gehnso is also an actual NPC!
> 
> \------
> 
> Ven leaves an impression, to say the least.


	50. Laughing uncontrollably

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ven’fir just wanted to make the Captain laugh.

It was rather strange, Ven’fir thought, but he didn’t think he had ever heard Quinn laugh.

Well, not that strange, actually.

He had, after all, been obliviously keeping the man miserable for most of the time they had known each other.

That still hurt.

It had no right to, considering he was very much not the wounded party, but the guilt ate at him like a physical sensation. It squirmed unpleasantly in his belly and clawed its way up to his chest to wrap its cold, slimy fingers around his heart.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him, of course he hadn’t, but the fact was that he _had._

He'd done the Ven’fir thing and bulldozed anything in his path to get to what he wanted, and he hadn’t spared a moment to think about the collateral damage.

And there was a _lot_ of collateral damage.

How stupid had he been, how blind?

Had he really been so utterly self-absorbed that he hadn’t seen the signs?

The awkwardness, the lack of sleep, the silence and the distancing.

The flinches, the steady decline into unhealthy pallor and weight, and the deadness of his eyes?

It made him sick to think about.

He didn’t _want_ to think about it, but he felt like he needed to force himself to. He needed to be sorry.

He _was_ sorry.

It wouldn’t ever be enough.

He had had the nerve to feel hurt when faced with the Captain's confusion.

Ven’fir had thought the man was coming to his bed because he _liked_ him.

He should have known better.

People didn’t _like_ Ven’fir. They were amused by him or they tolerated him. He was _too much._

Somewhere between the leg bouncing, the ridiculous energy, the apparent narcissism, the lightspeed talking and the mercurial obsessions, people tended to back away slowly rather than stay.

He was just _too much._

No, Ven’fir dragged Quinn closer and it _destroyed_ him to think of all the times that he had kissed him or touched him and the Captain hadn’t really wanted to-

It made him want to curl up and not exist.

He _hated_ himself. He'd never felt that before.

So, when the Captain had tentatively accepted his apology, he hadn’t ended up feeling better at all.

He was probably just unconsciously tricking the human into accepting his apology.

Quinn was far too accepting of bad treatment.

He seemed to expect it, even. It didn’t make it hurt less, but he seemed to just... take it.

There was no surprise, no fighting, no pushing back. Not any that really mattered, anyway.

He wasn’t _meek_ , that wasn’t the right word, but be bore hurt with a dogged kind of acceptance.

It was like abuse was a fact of life and he just had to bear it and get on with his job.

It shook Ven’fir to his very core.

To him, accepting a bad hand was unimaginable.

To fight was in his blood, it was his _right_ as Sith.

But Quinn wasn’t Sith, and in every fight, someone had to be the loser.

Quinn lost, over and over again.

Every time Ven’fir ignored quiet, awkward protests, touched him without thinking or took the choice out of his hands, Quinn lost.

And he expected it.

He braced for it, every time.

But Ven’fir had _noticed._

Eventually.

With some help.

Vette still wasn’t speaking to him.

She had found it funny at first, his constant teasing and aggressive flirting with the cold-fish Captain.

But then it stopped being funny sometime around when she had seen Quinn's hands shaking and noticed the bags under his eyes, and the way he flinched when Ven’fir grabbed him when he just wanted to _work._

Then it hadn’t been funny at all.

The Captain hadn’t forgiven him, but he had accepted his apology.

If he was being honest, Ven’fir wouldn’t have wanted forgiveness.

Not yet.

It had been months since that fateful conversation that still had him feeling guilty and heavy, and the Captain was slowly coming out of his armour.

The armour that he had put on because of Ven’fir.

Ven’fir, and the Sith who had come before him.

It was a painful process, trying to undo the hurts he'd caused.

He was unused to doing things carefully, unused to taking his time and facing the consequences of his actions.

It was a jarring experience.

He wanted to try.

He _needed_ to try.

So he did.

It was nice to see the resignation on Quinn's face when Ven’fir talked over him turn to surprise when the Sith stopped himself, apologised and offered him an awkward little grin.

He had interrupted Ven’fir yesterday.

Ven’fir had almost hugged the poor man.

He hadn’t been rude (Ven’fir wasn’t sure if Quinn was physically capable of being rude), but he had quickly slipped a word in when Ven’fir had paused for breath.

He had smiled at him this morning, and Ven’fir had just about combusted.

It had been a tiny, subtle thing, just a twitch of the lips as an annoyed Ven’fir had done a bad impression of some Moff he didn’t like.

He hadn’t been expecting a smile, and it had knocked him for six when he got one.

Quinn was slowly relaxing around him, and that was more rewarding than Ven’fir would have imagined.

Ven’fir was pretty sure his feelings for the Captain were becoming increasingly obvious.

Still, even if Quinn never looked at him with love, he wanted the man happy.

Or, at least not actively _unhappy._

With Quinn, he would take what he could get.

That was a new feeling too. Accepting defeat, or at least not the outcome one wanted.

He wanted Quinn to like him as much as _Ven’fir_ liked _him_ , but he would accept it if that wasn’t possible.

Settling for anything less than the total fulfilment of ones desires was... not something he was used to. At all.

Nor was the idea of _consequences._

Vette had always laughed when she had called him a spoiled brat, but now she wasn’t speaking to him at all and suddenly that insult had a lot more weight to it.

Quinn didn’t like indulging that side of him, he knew. Pursed mouth and flinty eyes were all he got when he felt himself building up to a moment, even if now he tried to read the signs before he acted that way. It was hard to change years of ingrained behaviour. Sometimes he didn’t even know he was doing it until he saw the human’s expression go cool and irritated. He tried to hide it, to pretend that he didn’t mind, but Ven’fir saw (now that he knew to look).

Still, Ven’fir hadn’t realised just much more _lovely_ Quinn looked when he wasn’t a tense, wary mess.

In his mind, Malavai Quinn was _made_ to be kissed.

Preferably often, with as much warmth as he could muster.

Hugged too.

Ven’fir was a tactile, outgoing extrovert.

Quinn was a aloof, reserved introvert.

(And by the stars, _what_ an introvert)

Vette had once explained what the difference was after he had been quite put out at how unenthusiastic Quinn had been to then spend more time with them after a full day out.

Extroverts, Vette had said flatly, recharged their batteries with social contact. Their batteries drained when they were alone.

That _did_ sound like him.

Introverts batteries depleted in social situations and recharged when they got some quiet alone time.

That _did_ sound like Quinn.

That had helped with the whole ‘respecting boundaries’ and ‘the fact that people might be different from him’ thing.

Quinn seemed appreciative, and Ven’fir liked seeing him, he couldn’t say happy, but less tense.

So as much as Ven’fir wanted to cuddle him and kiss him and press him against the wall and _ravish_ him and love him forever, it didn’t feel right.

It probably wouldn’t for a long time.

He needed to patch the holes before he could build on that particular foundation.

So, he would start with a laugh.

He told jokes, did impressions, told anecdotes and generally tried his hardest to get more than a reserved little smile out of the human.

Nothing.

Well, those smiles were nice, and Quinn seemed to be getting used to Ven’fir actually _talking_ to him rather than immediately trying to get into his pants.

So, while the ‘get Quinn to laugh’ plan was so far an abject failure, it resulted in so many actual _conversations_ that Ven’fir didn’t mind at all.

He forced himself not to dominate the back and forth, and _listened._

Quinn was _not_ much of a talker, but he wasn’t silent either. When he realised that no, this wasn’t a trap or a joke, and that yes, Ven’fir actually wanted to listen to him, he opened up.

It was everything Ven’fir wanted.

Quinn didn’t want to talk when he was on duty, but afterwards they ended up in a pleasant routine of sharing tea in the galley after their evening meal.

Quinn still worked through that too, but at least he was sitting down and speaking to someone.

Ven’fir learned a lot about him.

He liked to climb.

He could play the valachord.

He loved to cook.

He hated the cold.

He had been part of the Empire’s eugenics program, but hadn’t been considered a success. (This greatly upset him, and Ven’fir learned not to mention it. Apparently, this was all in the personnel file he hadn’t read but that Quinn thought he already knew about.)

He had made his first kill when he was thirteen.

He had a half-sister from the program, Shara, who he kept in contact with.

He liked puzzles.

Ven’fir hung on his every word.

Slowly, they began to relax around each other.

Ven’fir was aware Quinn didn’t _despise_ him, even after everything, but he still felt guilty about enjoying his company.

Still. He lived for those smiles.

Most of his attempts fell flat, however.

Quinn had an odd sense of humour, when he bothered to show it.

Ven’fir had all but forgotten about his self-set challenge in the face of that weaponized stoicism.

He was enjoying the conversations more anyway.

Dromund Kaas was in the middle of the rainy season when they docked to for a few days leave to to resupply before heading out again.

Ven’fir invited Quinn for dinner and a drink, and the officer seemed quite surprised to be asked. Ven’fir would usually have gone out to eat, probably somewhere fancy that cost more per mouthful than most people earned in a week.

Not this time. This time he had actually thought about who was with him and decided that a night in would be better.

He would even cook the one thing he knew how to make.

When the Captain accepted, he seemed almost... shy.

Ven’fir wanted to cuddle him so _much_.

He refrained.

Of course, nothing could be that easy.

A quick request from some Darth Ven’fir didn’t know had him searching the forest for a runaway apprentice.

This should have been a quick job, a few hours and then back to the city for dinner with Quinn at his apartment.

The Force had other plans.

Six hours later, soaked through and completely covered in mud, he entered his apartment, his footsteps squishing on the tiles.

He was _late._

There was goo in his hair.

The apprentice had been some kind of animal aficionado that, when threatened, unleashed what seemed to be half the Kaasian rainforest on him.

Aware that he had a face like thunder and there were definitely _twigs_ in his hair, he spotted a head of dark hair waiting for him.

Quinn was sitting on his sofa, head buried in a holo-reader, quietly reading a book while he waited.

He was dressed casually, or as casual as he ever got.

He glanced up, and his eyes widened.

His hand flew to his mouth.

Ven’fir glowered.

This was _ridiculous._

He looked like a swamp creature, his hair was unsalvagable, and his armour was steadily dropping muddy water and goo on the floor. His expression must have been one of supreme grumpiness.

It was _embarrassing_ to even-

A noise.

He blinked.

Quinn's hand was still over his mouth.

Another noise, and suddenly the Captain's eyes crinkled and he was laughing, hand over his mouth and shoulders shaking.

Ven’fir just stood there dumbly, dripping all over the floor.

“You- you have-" the Captain laughed again, and tried to stifle himself, his cheeks going pink.

Ven’fir couldn’t help it.

Laughter bubbled up from his chest and soon he was laughing too, so hard he had to balance himself on his cloak stand.

He wasn’t sure how long the two of them were like that, but the Captain recovered first, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed pink.

Ven’fir's belly felt ticklish and light, and his head swelled with affection.

The Captain, embarrassed and awkward, fussily played with his sleeve.

“My apologies, my lord.” He managed, “I didn’t mean to-"

“I’ve been trying to get a laugh out of you for months, Quinn.” Ven’fir grinned, waving a hand and sending a spray of muddy little droplets over his floor. “If I would have known all it took to make you laugh was me looking miserable, I would have done this sooner.”

Quinn's cheeks turned magenta, and he looked sheepish.

“I didn’t realise you had an agenda,” he admitted, tilting his head as he peered at the state Ven’fir was in.

So, he hadn’t noticed that Ven’fir was trying to be funny.

Ouch.

The Sith grinned.

“Well, I can safely say that if it makes you smile, this was all worth it.” He said honestly.

Quinn blushed again, awkward and insecure and really quite pleased.

He smiled at Ven’fir, and the Sith felt his heart lift as he fell head over heels once again.

 _Definitely_ worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would think working form home under quarantine would mean I get more writing done, but no. *sigh*
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe!


	51. It was just a game to them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ven’fir and Malavai attend a party on Dromund Kaas.

It was all a very formal affair.

It had to be, considering the guest list.

Dromund Kaas was hardly the model of reserve and understatement anyway, but the event thrown to celebrate the downfall of Zakuul was one of truly monumental proportions.

Anyone who was anyone was invited, and the guest list spanned the hundreds.

The Alliance was a formidable presence during the planning, and their influence could be seen throughout the gathering, if one knew where to look.

There were no slaves serving the attendees, only servants and droids. Security was handled by both the Imperial military and the Alliance troops, and there was food from every corner of the galaxy. Imperial confectionery was plated next to Chiss toasted salad and Hrorbb canapes, while bottles of Kaasian red stood next to Mantellian brandy and Corellian mumbo.

 The venue was part of the Sith Citadel, an entire floor of the massive skyscraper given over to public and private function. It served as a ballroom, debate hall, ritual site and, surprisingly often, a concert hall.

The Empire loved its culture.

Indeed, the non-Imperial members of the Alliance who were attending were both intimidated and grudgingly impressed by the sheer scale and style of the Imperial capital. The dark jungles could be seen stretching out past the city boundaries, the occasional flash of bioluminescent plant life adding a splash of colour to the formless mass of trees.

Skyscrapers touched the violet tinged clouds as lightening forked over the sky, ominous rumbles of thunder succeeding them as rain pattered against taxi windows and over umbrellas.

The Warrior’s Solace memorial stood tall and proud in the square, a testament to the losses suffered. It was a quintessentially Imperial thing, a clean-cut slab of stone of massive proportions, utilitarian while also dominating the space it occupied. Names were carved into the smooth surface, inlaid with gleaming silver. One name had been removed, a single embellished line cutting through.

The violet flames that burned beside it never went out, and partygoers that had been daring enough to explore the city before the party seemed fascinated by it.

The citadel was imposing and shadowed, and the few former Jedi that had actually accepted felt deeply uncomfortable on a world so heavily saturated with the Dark Side.

Still, the Imperials _loved_ a party.

Their ethos seemed to consist of ‘work hard, play hard' and the non-Imperial members of their contingent hadn’t quite believed the wild stories of underground clubs and other, less than innocent entertainment.

Imperials were a repressed lot, but everyone knew what they said about the quiet ones.

And the _fashion._

The Sith in particular stole the show, with everything from jewelled robes and outrageous shoulderpads to evening dresses made entirely of glittering oro feathers and suits cut in the latest styles, embellished with tiny gemstones and patterned silks.

It was a glittering, heady mix of power, beauty and politics.

For Ven’fir, it was a chance to cut loose and enjoy himself as he indulged in one of his favourite pastimes; being the centre of attention.

He admired himself in his outfit, cut in a flattering, fashionable style. It was black, _of course._

Vette had taken one look at the elegant filigree, the decorative yet functional armour pieces, the iridescent feathers adorning the pauldron that kept his cape on one shoulder, as well as the peacock pearls that embellished various parts of his ensemble, and had sighed.

She had admitted however, with no little annoyance, that he looked _terrific_.

Of _course_ he did. He knew what he was doing.

It was the perfect marriage between armour and something more formal, and he personally thought he had absolutely _killed_ it.

He checked himself in the mirror again, critically looking for any defect in his appearance. His hair was just the right type of windswept curls to be charmingly rakish, and the faint lick of kohl around the corners of his eyes really did wonders.

Jewellery was a hazard in the field, but this was a party, so gold flashed at his throat and on his ears, and he could feel his wedding ring under his gloves and gauntlets.

Yeah, he looked _good._

It was a pity he was going to be _late._

 _“Vette!”_ he called irritably, “Are you almost done? Even I’m done faster than you!”

Some cursing emanated from the guest room, and Ven’fir had to sigh. Honestly.

“Should I check on them?”

He grinned at those words, turning to the man that had just exited their bedroom. Malavai looked _stunning._

Ven’fir was only mildly biased, thank you very much, and he was confident in saying that his partner was the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

He wasn’t an ostentatious man by nature and his sense of style reflected that. His suit was clean cut and flattering, and he pulled on immaculate leather gloves. These were a thinner kind than those that went with his uniform, cut slim for the aesthetic rather than the practical.

Ven’fir really liked how his hands looked in those.

A small splash of colour came in the form of a silk pocket square, dove grey and gold. Ven’fir had tried to get him in a cloak, but the human had refused.

A shame.

He smiled at his lover, who gave a small smile back.

Ven’fir wanted to kiss him, so he did. He was careful not to touch the officer’s immaculate hair or disturb his suit, even as thoughts of taking it off him swam before his eyes.

Maybe later.

He was wearing the cologne that Ven’fir liked, something warm and masculine, and he smiled as he buried his nose in the crook of the Imperial’s neck.

He heard Malavai laugh, and the human’s hands came up to gently move him away.

“You’ll mess up your hair.” The human scolded, reaching over to correct a strand. “And your eyes.”

Ven’fir chuckled.

“I couldn’t help myself. You look _gorgeous_.”

Malavai blushed, pink settling over his cheekbones. Ven’fir never got tired of that.

“Thank you.” He murmured, the faint glimmer of barely subdermal cybernetics catching the light as he tilted his head. The silvery scars were barely visible now, save for the biggest one that curved over his temple and under his eye.

The stubble on his jaw was trimmed and immaculate, even if a little salt was starting to creep into the pepper.

The steadily encroaching silver at his temples and beard only made him lovelier, in Ven’fir’s humble opinion, but he knew it embarrassed Malavai something fierce.

He noted Malavai drawing an eye over him.

“You look good, too.” The human said with a smile. “It’s very… you.”

Ven’fir smirked.

“So, ridiculously attractive, then?”

Malavai’s look was drier than Tatooine, and Ven’fir couldn’t help but laugh.

“You look handsome, as always.” He said with an honest smile. Malavai's cheeks flushed deeper pink, but he smiled back.

Indeed, as much as Ven’fir loved seeing Malavai all formal, he liked seeing him in any form of dress. Or none, as the case may be.

They had traded sleepy, affectionate cuddles that morning, Malavai’s hair a mess and his eyes tired even as he smiled at Ven’fir’s attempts to get him in the mood for a morning quickie. Those attempts had sadly failed, but Malavai had compromised and promised him a ‘reward’ after the party, which he was looking forward to.

So sleepy, just-woken-up Malavai was as lovely as seeing him in his uniform or his fatigues or casual clothing, and Ven’fir was starting to suspect that there wasn't anything that didn't make his heart flutter when it came to his partner.

“So do you.” Malavai said lowly as he stepped closer, expression fond, and brought up a hand to gently brush his fingertips over Ven’fir’s cheekbone.

“Your eyes look so bright,” he murmured, and Ven’fir leaned into his touch.

Malavai had always liked Ven’fir’s eyes, turned burnished gold by the Dark Side. They faded into the colour of molten glass around the edges now, and he often caught Malavai staring.

It was flattering.

He grinned.

“I don’t use it much, but there’s something to be said for going all out for a party.” He chuckled, “Some Sith go in pretty hard with the makeup but I don’t suit it. Eyes only, I think.”

Before he could respond, the door to the guest room opened, and Malavai turned with an irritated look on his face.

Vette walked out, face like thunder and Jaesa following behind her, looking faintly sheepish.

“We're about to be late.” Malavai said snippily, folding his arms.

Vette shot him a withering look.

“I noticed, Captain Obvious.”

“Don’t you mean Major Obvious?” Ven’fir teased, chuckling as she made a rude hand sign at him.

Despite being rushed, she did look very pretty.

Her blue skin contrasted prettily with her silver dress, simple and flattering.

She wasn’t one for much makeup, but what she did wear suited her. Ven’fir thought Jaesa might have had a hand in that, since his beloved apprentice had become quite the makeup guru since leaving the Jedi.

Indeed, Jaesa looked stunning in her white dress, her caramel skin contrasting beautifully with the elegant cut of the gown. Her eyes were lined in thick kohl and lashings of mascara, and it made the flecks of amber in her eyes look otherworldly bright.

She smiled.

“You look great, master.” She complimented, “You too, Malavai.”

“You both look beautiful.” the Major said with a small smile, fond.

Ven’fir nodded.

“We're all going to break some hearts tonight, I think.” He smirked, “And you two ladies will have people falling over you to ask for dances.”

Vette tossed her lekku over her shoulder and gave him the side eye.

“I hope you didn’t teach me some stupid fake dance to embarrass me.” She muttered sourly.

Ven’fir's grin widened.

“Now, would I do a thing like that?” he asked, hand on heart.

She gave him a look.

“Without a moment of hesitation.”

He shrugged.

“Fair. But no, I taught you properly. I wouldn’t disrespect the Kturz-je Waltz like that.” He grinned.

Vette shook her head.

“When you told me that you took dance classes when we first met, I didn’t believe you.” She admitted, amused. “I was under the impression Imperials only did boring stuff.”

Ven’fir grinned at her, playing at being offended.

“I’ll have you know that dancing is very important in the Empire.” He lectured as they collected their coats and cloaks. “It's a form of self-expression that is actually allowed, and that makes it extremely popular. Have you seen an Imperial dance show? It is _not_ boring; I can assure you.”

Quinn nodded. “I’m no great dancer, but I learned in the academy. Its mandatory for all officers to learn to dance."

Vette grinned.

“Remember when you were showing me around Kaas City and we dropped in on your old dance teacher?” she reminded Ven’fir fondly. “She got you up there to show her students how it’s done and I swear I have never been more shocked than when I saw you and this stuffy old pureblood dance a perfect tango in front of a group of unenthusiastic teenagers.”

Ven’fir chuckled as they entered the speeder that waited for them, giving a respectful nod to the chauffeur. It was an imposing looking thing, all black with tinted windows that just a shade too thick to be anything but bulletproof, and diplomatic holoplates displayed with pride.

“I remember. They weren’t unenthusiastic when I left, I’ll have you know. Applications to join dancing schools increased tenfold when they put the pictures of us on the holonet. She was a great teacher.” He mused. “Maybe I’ll call in tomorrow.”

Malavai gave him a look. “You'll be useless tomorrow, my lord.” He said flatly. “Because you'll be hungover.”

Ven’fir waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll drink in moderation.”

Jaesa raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“You, and I say this with the utmost respect and care Master, have never done anything in moderation. Ever.”

Vette guffawed, and Malavai chuckled.

“I feel,” Ven’fir said in a lofty tone. “like I’m being bullied, here.”

Vette smirked.

“What was it you said to me when we first met? ‘no one bullied me in the playground’, I think it was?”

Malavai raised an eyebrow.

“You had _tutors_ , my lord. You didn’t go to state school.”

Ven’fir huffed. He had been entirely too lenient with his friends, and now they mocked him.

Unbelievable.

“You,” he said to Vette with a beady eyed look. “Can stay quiet.”

He turned to an amused looking Malavai.

“And you- well, I can’t stay mad at you.” He smirked. “Not when you’re wearing that suit, anyway.”

Vette pretended to gag while Jaesa chuckled, and Malavai’s cheeks turned pink.

Ven’fir would never get tired of making him blush. He was so pale that it was so obvious when his cheeks flushed pink, and Ven’fir found it entirely too cute.

He was probably the only one in the galaxy that would call the Major ‘cute', but he reserved the right.

“Please be quiet, my lord.” The Major murmured awkwardly, although Ven’fir knew him well enough now to see that he was quite flattered.

Ven’fir grinned and let him be, looking instead out of the windows as they passed over the city.

Kaas City.

Even after all these years it felt like a little bit of home. Ven’fir got attached to things, and places were no exception.

Nostalgia seemed to find him no matter where he was or what he was doing, and it settled over him particularly heavily today.

So much had changed.

Not just for him and his, but for the galaxy as a whole.

They were thinking of naming him Emperor, and while he would step up to lead a nation if he _had_ to, he would be happier sticking to leading his Alliance.

He had built that, after all. He, Theron and Lana and a host of others had _built_ the Alliance from the ground up, and he could not be prouder.

Everything was new for the Alliance, and he could make of it what he wanted. He liked that.

The Alliance was his, and he wasn’t going to give it up any time soon.

The speeder made a graceful decent towards the citadel, and the nostalgic feeling washed over him again.

When they had woken up in the apartment that morning, he had felt overwhelmed with nostalgia and affection. Upon his apparent death, the apartment had passed to Malavai as per his instruction, but the poor, grieving man had not been in a state to do anything with it. It was exactly how Ven’fir had left it all those years ago, which had been extremely strange. At least the droid had kept it clean in the meantime, until ownership had passed back to Ven’fir.

Waking up in the old place with Malavai curled up beside him had thrown him off balance, only restored by snuggling into warm covers and holding on to his lover like a lifeline.

“It's been a long time,” he murmured, and felt Malavai's eyes on him. One gloved hand surreptitiously moved to grasp his, and he squeezed.

“I remember coming back here after Korriban,” he mused, a small smile on his face. “To meet my new master. That seems so long ago, now.”

Vette nodded, smiling.

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure about you then, but I guess you’re all right now.” She teased. “I followed you around like a lost lamb. It was terrifying to be on _Dromund Kaas_ , the dreaded Imperial homeworld.” She wiggled her fingers and put on a wavering, spooky voice before she scoffed. “It’s not so bad. It’s kind of normal, actually. You know, except it’s filled with boring try-hards that will shoot you for littering.”

She shot Quinn a smirk and laughed when he raised his eyebrow at her.

Jaesa shook her head, amused.

“I was still thinking of myself as a Jedi when you first brought me here,” she admitted, watching the gleaming skyscrapers as the rain made them glitter.

“I was so sure of what I would find.” She shrugged. “But under the Sith influence, I just found _people_. Sometimes you forget about the people living behind the flags.”

Ven’fir nodded.

“I always liked escaping the estate and roaming around the city.” He remembered, fond. “The estate was boring and stuffy, but I liked moving around the markets and visiting the cantinas.” He smirked, “I didn’t always make it home that night, either.”

Vette scoffed. “I bet you made it to _someone's_ home.”

The Sith waved a hand dismissively.

“I was young and horny. Can you blame me for indulging myself? There’s no shortage of people wanting to cut loose in the underground clubs.”

Jaesa shook her head.

“I still can’t believe you took us to one of those.” She sighed, amused. “I thought you were being sarcastic when you said what they were like.”

Ven’fir laughed.

“Oh, they were quite the departure from what you expected, weren’t they? I remember. Technically those places are not allowed; only licensed establishments are supposed to operate in the city and they’re regularly inspected. The government pretends they don’t know about them, as long as they don’t cause trouble and comply with the authorities. Imperials don’t often let loose, but when they do...”

Vette nodded.

“I thought you were bigging up this inevitably boring cantina, but then you led us to this underground _warehouse_ or whatever, and I was so not expecting it.” She said frankly. “It was like an S&M club got crossed with an industrial rave.”

Ven’fir snickered.

“The Sith don’t ban them because they like _going_ to them.” He admitted. “The younger ones do, anyway.”

Jaesa eyed him beadily.

“And I’m sure you were a regular.”

Ven’fir put his hand on his chest, smirking.

“Me? Jaesa, I was on first name terms with all the bar staff.” He winked, and Jaesa laughed.

“I am going out on a limb here and assuming you’ve never been to one.” Vette said to Quinn, tone dry.

The Imperial raised an eyebrow.

“Once.” He said primly, “I didn’t like it.”

Ven’fir chuckled.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said fondly.

Quinn gave an elegant shrug.

“I was too busy with the academy, anyway. It was drummed into me that any time not spent studying or practicing was time wasted.” He looked a little shifty, and the pink lingered on his cheeks. “I didn’t _entirely_ eschew socialising, however. At the time, I had a girlfriend who would drag me out to the cantina a few times a week.”

Vette blinked. “I’ve known you for this long and I never once thought you might have dated anyone but this idiot.” She nodded to the Sith who gamely ignored her. “You had a girlfriend in the academy?”

He nodded. “Sevjo, her name was. We parted on good terms.” He admitted. “And uh, then I dated my old tutor for a while. That ended less than pleasantly and I didn’t date much after that.”

Vette stared. “You dated your tutor? You dog.”

Quinn blushed furiously.

“It wasn’t anything as nefarious as what you are imagining,” he said reprovingly. “He was my student tutor for advanced mathematics when I was younger. We met again when we were older and decided to try dating. That was a mistake.” He muttered with a roll of his eyes. “And then I wasn’t with anyone long term until I ended up with you.” He said to Ven’fir, who already knew this.

The Sith gave him a flat, amused look.

“’Ended up with you', he says. How _romantic_.” He drawled, and Malavai gave him the side eye.

“Yes, well.” The Imperial sniffed, looking for all the world like a snooty feline. “One of us has to keep your ego in check, I suppose.”

Vette cackled, and Ven’fir smiled fondly as they headed towards the citadel.

Theron and Lana were waiting for them as they exited the speeder in the valet area.

There were already a lot of people milling around, and plenty of onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of some well-known faces arriving.

This was Ven’fir's _element,_ although he knew it definitely wasn’t Vette's or Malavai's.

Vette loved a party, but she was usually uncomfortable with overly formal situations, which this definitely counted as.

Thankfully she was with Jaesa, who had the bearing of a queen and the cool head of half a lifetime of a jedi training.

Lord Wilsaam was more than enough protection and guidance for Vette, who looked quite excited to get inside and cause some trouble.

Malavai just didn’t like too many people looking at him.

Ven’fir personally thought that a crime.

Malavai, in his head, was something the whole galaxy needed to see.

But Malavai didn’t want that.

He brushed his fingertips over Malavai's arm, and the human gave him a smile as they walked towards where Lana and Theron waited.

Lana was looking stunning in her suit, razor sharp and fashionable. She looked untouchable and fierce with her sulphur yellow eyes lined in black and her lips painted crimson.

Woe betide anyone who thought her petite stature and doll-like prettiness made her an easy target tonight.

She smiled at them as they approached, flashing white teeth.

Theron stood next to her, her polar opposite.

He looked awkward in his suit, but Ven’fir knew that was mostly an act. Theron had been to enough parties and events undercover to know how to act in one, but he was putting on a show as the awkward ex-Rep.

Tanned and boyish, he grinned at them as they approached. His suit was classical and oddly reserved, considering this was the man who ran around in red leather half of the time. Still, the tailoring was top notch and highlighted just how long his legs were. Ven’fir approved.

Ven’fir really had lucked out with his advisors.

Not only were they competent, but both were _gorgeous._

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Theron said as they joined them, and Ven’fir shook his head.

“Vette was getting ready.” He shamelessly threw his friend under the bus, and she rolled her eyes.

“Jaesa wanted to re-do my lipstick.” She shrugged. “I didn’t want to question her.”

Jaesa looked a little sheepish and smiled.

“It was too warm toned. She needed something cooler.”

Theron just gave them an odd look and otherwise ignored them.

“Well, it’s almost time to start.” He said, checking his timepiece. “Time to put your game faces on.”

Lana shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing.

“This isn’t a sortie, Theron. It’s just a party.” By her shark-like smile, she knew that a Sith party was just as dangerous as combat, if not more so.

The spy rolled his eyes.

“It's an _Imperial_ party,” he stressed. “So yes, I’m going to stay on my toes. Kal said he would meet me inside, but I’m on my own until then.”

Malavai didn’t react to the name, but Ven’fir squeezed his hand anyway.

Lana gave him a look.

“I’ll not leave you to the firaxans, Theron.”

“Oh, good.” Theron muttered, “I get to be your arm candy.”

Lana smirked.

“I’ve always wanted a boy-toy.”

Theron scrunched up his nose and sighed, before offering her his arm.

With a smile that told them she planned to tease him further, Lana took his arm and gestured for them to proceed her.

After all, they were guests of honour.

Ven’fir gave Malavai a roguish grin and offered his arm.

The human gave him a look and took it with elegance usually reserved for reluctant debutantes.

Ven’fir leaned over to him, speaking quietly.

“Just think of it like a mission.” He murmured. “Hostile territory, and you need to blend in, or your cover is blown.”

Malavai gave a small chuckle and nodded.

“I know. I’m going to be taking Theron's advice and putting my game face on. This is a party, but it’s also a political event.”

Ven’fir nodded and squeezed his arm.

Malavai took a breath and it was fascinating to sir the change in him.

He was always perfectly poised anyway, but something about his bearing shifted. His jaw set and his expression turned cool and faintly disdainful. In other words, perfectly Imperial.

Ven’fir had always appreciated Malavai when he got haughty and bitchy, especially if it wasn’t directed at _him._

It was _hot._

Maybe they could revisit that later.

Lights glittered in the drizzle and over sparkling dresses as they watched people enter.

They were a little out of the way, but the moment they stepped into the light, all eyes would be on them.

Ven’fir leaned in and kissed his partner, who made a small noise of surprise before he kissed back.

“I love you.”

Malavai, cheeks pink and expression fond, smiled.

“And I love you.” He murmured. He pulled away again, and storm blue eyes were fierce and bright.

“Shall we?” he offered, and Ven’fir couldn’t help but grin.

He had his husband by his side, and his friends and advisors behind him.

They would take this place by storm and show the galaxy exactly what they were made of.

They would play this crowd like a damned fiddle, and the people would _love_ them for it.

Thinking back on the journey and the time it had taken to get to this point, Ven’fir marvelled at it all.

How lucky he was, to have lived the life he had.

He wasn’t done yet.

He smiled to Malavai, his partner in everything. He stood tall and steady, fierce and ready for anything.

Affection and excitement welled in his chest.

Whatever came next, they would be _ready_.

They weren’t done with the galaxy yet, not by a long shot.

He squeezed his lovers’ hand and heard him take a deep breath as they stepped out into a thousand flashes from hundreds of holo-cameras.

He put on his best smile and waved to the crowd that followed his every movement.

The roar filled his ears and all he could feel was thrill and anticipation and the warmth where Malavai's hand met his.

He had so much to look forward to.

He had so many more kisses to experience, so many sleepy, early morning cuddles and quiet moments of comfort. There were silly arguments to have and mind-blowing sex to take part in. There were moments of laughing so hard he had to sit down, or watching his husband be a badass, and simply loving every second he could spend with him.

The thought made him giddy.

The future was uncertain, but they would take anything that the galaxy threw at them.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's done.
> 
> I can't quite believe I am at the end of my prompt list, but here we are!
> 
> It's been lovely to write this and I'm really going to miss it, but I'm certainly not done yet. I have six more small series planned, including a spin off from a certain chapter of this work, an AU series, and some focus on Nine, Nox and V'lante. Also, the ACTUAL For The Sky needs working on too. At some point.
> 
> There's probably going to be some more oneshots floating around too, as I don't think I could give up writing about these two so easily. If there are any specific requests for things that I haven't yet included in Droplets, they'll appear here! 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed reading this long ass fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Look out for the new series, which will be coming out next week, and updating every Sunday. :)
> 
> Hit me up if anyone wants to chat SWTOR, OCs or... well, anything!


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